


The Lost Garden

by buckysnowangel, Neutralchaos, nightmaresinwintah



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Artist Steve Rogers, Asexual Steve Rogers, Demisexual Bucky Barnes, Gardener Bucky, Love at First Sight, M/M, Magical Bucky, Magical Realism, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Over protective Nat, Perhaps over-the-top descriptions of a garden/other world, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Temporary Character Death, Underlying Dark Things (oooooo everythings not as it seems), Wordcount: Over 50.000, dont there's a happy ending, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-10-31 04:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 57,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17842442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckysnowangel/pseuds/buckysnowangel, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neutralchaos/pseuds/Neutralchaos, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmaresinwintah/pseuds/nightmaresinwintah
Summary: This is what he has been searching for, he knows. There’s something tugging at him, urging him to find out if there is anything behind the door, if it will open for him. He looks around himself, unsure, but figures there can’t be any harm. No one seems to be taking any notice of him anyway. Why not go through the magic door and see if it possibly holds another world behind it? If nothing else, Steve will have something exciting to tell Nat.So, he reaches out, the discomfort of the day's heat washing away as awe and curiosity take their place, and he grips the handle and pushes.The frame gives. It creaks open with the piercing sound of unoiled hinges that belong to a door that hasn’t been opened in an innumerable amount of years. It takes Steve a moment to get over the fact that the door opens, but when he does, his breath gets knocked out of him. He finds himself clinging to the handle for support. It’s like a wave crashing over his head and then coming back up for desperate air, shock pushing at his chest.For, beyond the door, there lays a glade.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. Okay. Here we are. 
> 
> I have many thanks to give! First goes to the AMAZING artists that claimed this fic and created some jaw-dropping works that will be embedded in the story as we go along. Thank you so very much, [Neutralchaos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neutralchaos/pseuds/Neutralchaos) and [buckysnowangel!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckysnowangel/pseuds/buckysnowangel)
> 
> Also a HUGE thanks to those who helped me edit along the way!! [gracelesso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracelesso/pseuds/gracelesso) helped heaps and heaps with the direction of this fic, and put up with me rewriting the first part three damn times. Thank you! So much! [girlbookwrm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlbookwrm/pseuds/girlbookwrm) helped with editing the very first drafts, and put this damn trainwreck on the right path!! Thank youuuuu!!! [crinklefries](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crinklefries) polished the absolute shit out of this and it wouldn't be as it is today if not for that! Thank you thank you thank you! 
> 
> And yeah, that's that! I'll be updating the tags as we go along, so be sure to check for changes over the duration of the posting. Everything will be posted by the 28th of Feb :)

_ Darkness hums around him, vibrating like it is full of hungry vipers and snapping wolves, both gaping maws bordered by dripping, needle-like teeth. A being, created pure and kind, writhes in its agony, mind in a vice, bleeding out its horrors and letting them drip between floorboards. Pale hands, a metaphor for the vice, clutch its head as though it can hold in the memories that are ripped out one by one.  _

_ Happiness—people with their heads tilted back, throats bared, mouths stretched open in happiness. Flowers grow like weeds, breathtaking in their beauty, familiar in a way that comes from watching them grow, caring for them as they do.  _

_ Satisfaction—watching someone’s eyes light up as they talk of their love, words spilling from them like a sonnet, comfortable to share their life story. Food grows from a garden bed that had been deficient in nutrients, strong and bold, full of vitality and health.  _

_ Peace—knowing only what it is to be. Simplicity in caring for those who cannot care for themselves, being a shoulder lean on, an ear to spill heartaches to. Knowing what one’s purpose is, fulfilling it each and every day. The ocean, rolling in and out, caring not for anything.  _

_ Sorrow—staying the same while friends, lovers, people considered family grow old and die. Staying the same while those immortal in kind grow distant and war-weary, dying in a way worse than death. Watching plants wilt in reflection of this draining sadness.  _

_ Fear—green-and-black, the being dripping with menace explodes through the door, tears any semblance of innocence, of peace away, crushes it beneath one foot. Being forced to retaliate, to protect, to attack. Feeling shadows crawl all over, poisoning things once pure.  _

_ Despair—nothing to do but forget, no healing from this, impure, never meant for war, never meant for death and destruction. Peace but a distant hope, something meant for those who are good and kind.  _

_ Everything is torn out, everything is forgotten. A lock clicks shut. Nothing is left behind but the garden. In the darkness, the once-pure being hauls itself from the floor and heads outside to wait for sunrise, knowing only that it has some lettuces to plant. There is nothing else.  _

_ The shadows writhe, kept at bay for now. _


	2. The Door Opens

Sat at the kitchen bench, paper spread out across the surface, pencil in his mouth, is Steve Rogers. A scowl paints his face, half-formed sketches the cause of the expression. He glares at them, frustrated beyond words. It’s just—strange and impossible, is the words he’d like to use. Not a month ago he’d been churning out commission after commission no problem, but now? He can’t even draw a single _fruit bowl._

The fruit bowl in question sits unassuming before him. He turns his glare at it, as though he can project his anger there. He can’t though, because he is the source of his own anger. Why can’t he _draw?_ It’s like all his artistic ability has leaked out of his _ears._ He wants to scream, but Nat is sleeping, home from a late night out teaching self-defense, and he really doesn’t want to wake her.

“Fuck,” he breathes, slumping forwards so he can press his forehead to the mess of shitty sketches.

He needs a break from this; it’s doing him no good to keep drawing the same thing over and over and have it come out bad. He needs something to _inspire_ him, something that will take his pencil and _make it work._ Something—something strange and impossible, because something mundane and simple just isn’t working for him right now.

And the world is full of strange and impossible things, as much as it is of the mundane and simple. Steve knows this intimately. For example; Natasha Romanov is a strange and fairly impossible person. And, being her roommate and best friend, Steve has gotten to know the strange and impossible _incredibly_ well.

They’d met at a gallery showing of Steve’s five years prior; his very first showing, to be precise. Nervous as he’d been, he’d held all that pride and happiness inside him and watched people pointing at and dissecting his art like a fly on the wall. Nat, wide-frame sunglasses on and flame-red hair flowing around her shoulders in ringlets, had sought him out.

She had startled him, crept up until she was leaning against the wall beside him. Their first words shared were; _“You’re the artist, aren’t you?”_ and, _“Yes. Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”_ To which she had laughed, soft and pleased, and told him that he had something real going for him, with the art. Bumbling and charmed as he was, he asked her to lunch afterwards. She must have been bored, or so Steve tells himself, to go for solskinnskringle with him at the Norwegian bakery he frequented.

They’d hit it off, and become fast friends. There had just been something _about_ her. There still was. It was like a charm, or a hue she held around herself that screamed _mystery_ and _magic_ and, well. Strange and impossible.

To this day, five years in the future, Steve still maintains that Natasha Romanov holds at _least_ a little bit of magic in her. But, well. It would be impolite to ask someone about their magic in a world where magic has been fading fast, wouldn’t it?

It used to be prominent. The very air used to be thick with it. Sometime in the past hundred years, it had started fading, taking its creatures and beings with it. All that was left now were myths and legends, and history classes in school that touched on how magical beings used to live side-by-side with humans. There were still archives available for public viewing, still lists of beings who used to roam the streets, mentions of Gods and Goddesses that walked the skies and, often, the same paths that humans did.

Now, magic is just that—an echo. People know of it, but it’s so rare it’s barely even background noise. Sometimes there’ll be something in the news about ‘surges of magic’, or headlines claiming ‘magic making a comeback’, but nothing has ever come of it.

Steve’s never been overly interested in magic, but he’d always been intrigued whenever it came up in everyday life. Like his place of work; the Norwegian bakery had a job offer barely a year after Steve and Nat met for a barista that Steve had immediately gone for. His boss, Thor, was most certainly a descendant of magic. There was no other logical explanation for how his lights had kept going during one of the worst storms Steve’s ever experienced, no reasonable justification bar magic for his coffee machine running smoothly when all the power in the rest of the _suburb_ had been out.

Or like the stray black cat that lives near Steve’s apartment building walking down the street, rain pouring down from the heavens but not a drop on its coat. Like the way Nat seems to have no past, no connections to Brooklyn or anyone who lived here, but seems to know Thor, of all people. Or the way Nat, in the five years they’ve known each other, has changed her hairstyle countless times, but she seems to have not aged a single day.

So. Steve’s never been overly interested in magic, but what with Thor being his boss, Nat being his roommate, and the stray black cat that doesn’t get rained on, Steve can’t help but notice it when it’s staring him the face. He just prefers to think about more pressing things; magic lives in the background, now, but in Steve’s life? The new gallery showing he’s supposed to be putting on in _three months_ that he has nothing to show for is a lot more pressing.

So, yeah, here he is, thinking about magic that’s on the down-low and the people in his life that carry mystery on their shoulders like a cloak. He should really be thinking about what he’s going to _do_ for the gallery showing. Thing is, he’s lost his muse. It’s slipped right through his fingers and run away like the black cat that hisses at him everytime he tries to get close.

He huffs, lifting his head from the paper. He rubs his face and gets up, dropping his pencil by the fruit bowl. He walks over to the sink and fills a glass, gulping the water back. He washes his face, too, to clear his head. Even without the water running he wouldn’t have heard Nat enter the room.

“How’s the art inspo going?” she greets, faux innocence bleeding through her tone. “The fruit bowl have any answers?”

Steve jumps, standing up straight. He really should be used to it, now. “You know it didn’t,” he replies, drying his face with the inside of his shirt.

“Whatever,” Nat hums, looking through the piles of paper with drawings of what _might_ be interpreted as a fruit bowl, if Steve were a abstract artist. “What’s up with you?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I can’t fucking _draw,_ Nat.”

Nat huffs out a breath, barely hiding her laughter. “I’m sure you can, Steve. You just need to go for a walk, find something to inspire you.” she says.

Steve sighs. “It’s like you read my mind. Quit doing that.” He walks over to the bench and starts cleaning up his papers and pencils. His backpack is by the door; he shoves everything in it as he walks over.

“What are you looking for?” Nat asks, leaning against the bench and watching him with one perfectly arched eyebrow.

Steve shrugs his backpack over one shoulder, tucking his feet into his shoes. “Something strange and impossible.”

Nat laughs, slightly incredulous. “Okay,” she says, not questioning it. “Want me to save you some pizza? Clint’s coming over later.”

Clint is a mutual friend who owns their apartment building for some reason or another. He doesn’t often talk about being their landlord; Steve thinks he was lonely before Nat practically adopted him into their friend group. “Yeah, please. Should be back before dark,” he lets her know. She tends to worry.

“Well, see you later. Good luck!” she tells him, and he waves at her before shutting the apartment door behind him. _Right,_ he thinks. _I’m gonna damn well find something to paint today if it kills me._

So he sets off, wandering the streets of Brooklyn in sweating heat, looking for something that will jog his muse, inspire him in some way. He wanders for what seems like hours, although he knows it’s probably closer to thirty minutes. Still, he’s already so put-out that he can almost _feel_ the time dragging.

Just when he’s ready to give up and find some shade to rest in, something catches his eye. His heart skips a beat, hope flooding him from head to toes, and he steps out of the way of the pedestrian rush. He’s passed this way a hundred times, but this time...there’s something he hasn’t noticed before.

It’s a door, squeezed in between two others and looking completely out of place. The frame is made of stone, or some kind of marble. The door itself is heavy, untreated wood and covered in clumped moss and hanging lichen. Upon closer, bewildered inspection, Steve discovers that the frame is engraved with what seems to be runes, although they’re faded—eroded by time.

It’s exactly what he’s looking for—strange and impossible. It’s so out of the ordinary that it’s almost just that; ordinary. But the weirdest thing is that no one else is fazed by the door’s existence. Surely he’s not the only one who sees the completely out of place most probably magical doorway.

But maybe he’s just never noticed it before? Maybe it’s been here forever, right in front of him. There are no signs revealing what the door leads to. Nevertheless, his fingers itch with the need to either reach for the handle—which is a beautiful ancient brass in the shape of a leaf—or get out his pencil and start sketching.

This is what he has been searching for, he knows. There’s something tugging at him, urging him to find out if there is anything behind the door, if it will open for him. He looks around himself, unsure, but figures there can’t be any harm. No one seems to be taking any notice of him anyway. Why not go through the magic door and see if it possibly holds another world behind it? If nothing else, Steve will have something exciting to tell Nat.

So, he reaches out, the discomfort of the day's heat washing away as awe and curiosity take their place, and he grips the handle and pushes.

The frame gives. It creaks open with the piercing sound of unoiled hinges that belong to a door that hasn’t been opened in an innumerable amount of years. It takes Steve a moment to get over the fact that the door opens, but when he does, his breath gets knocked out of him. He finds himself clinging to the handle for support. It’s like a wave crashing over his head and then coming back up for desperate air, shock pushing at his chest.

For, beyond the door, there lays a glade.

 

("Bucky's Secret Garden" by Neutralchaos)

 

Beyond that door is a sun-hazey glade filled with an overpowering scent of herbs and flowers. Past the glade there are towering woodland trees and— red deer with _six antlers_ nibbling on candy-green grass. The sky is golden, like the sun has just come up or gone down.

The scent of salt carried on a breeze hits Steve in the face, stinging his cheeks, like the sea isn’t too far away. In the centre of the clearing there is a small pond, which is bordered with bright, pungent herbs. At a second glance, the shimmering pond is full of violet-and-emerald coloured fish which drift near the surface, their scales flashing in the golden light.

And, just when Steve doesn’t think this could get any more amazing—it does. It leaves him spinning, off-balance, staring as he attempts to burn these images into his brain while he tries to comprehend it all.

For, beside the pond kneels a man collecting and tending to a patch of vetch. The man, at first glance seems human, if a bit other-worldly, even here in this incomprehensible place. His dark hair falls in waves halfway down his bare back, his skin nearly matches the golden sky, although, at second glance, his skin seems to shimmer with flecks of amber, sky-blue and lilac. He wears a simple skirt made from some kind of thin cotton. The way he moves betrays how not-human he is, as does the band of wormwood and thyme woven around his head.

Steve can’t help the sharp intake of breath he takes. The man freezes. Steve holds his breath, the hand he still has on the door handle the only thing holding him up. His knees shake and, as the man turns to face Steve, he sees that his eyes are silver, his face strangely angular. The man’s hauntingly beautiful eyes latch onto Steve and Steve feels caught in his piercing gaze.

While Steve is still trying to comprehend everything that he is seeing, the man’s face morphs into an expression of utter shock and disbelief. His eyes flick to see the bustling city behind Steve, through the open door. In the next moment he rises to his bare feet in one fluid motion, vetch flowers falling from his hands. The strange fish dart to where the flowers drop on the surface of the water, nibbling at them eagerly.

Steve startles, taking a step back, the door creaking with him. The man immediately looks terrified and reaches out a hand towards him, as though to stop Steve from where he stands.

“No—please,” the man gasps, and his voice sounds like the taste of honey and nasturtiums.

Steve freezes. The man—if he could be called that—takes a steadying breath and lowers his hand, eyes darting nervously between Steve and the open door. Steve’s holding the door ajar now—it’s heavy, and threatening to swing shut if he lets it. He resists the door, holding it open. He glances behind him, sees that _no one_ has noticed what is going on. Has Steve gone insane? Because, for all that magic has been going extinct, it seems impossible that this is real.

He turns back to the not-man, startles at the intense look on his strange and beautiful face. “What is this?” Steve asks, an edge of desperation creeping into his tone.

The not-man takes a deep breath, as though calming himself, and visibly relaxes as he realises Steve isn’t going to turn and run. “This is the Lost Garden,” he says, voice tinged with disbelief, like he can’t believe this is happening. Steve knows the feeling.

“No one but I have been here in a hundred years,” the not-man continues, blinking all doe-like.

_“A hundred?”_ Steve hisses, shaking his head—he feels like bees are swarming in his brain. “Is this a joke? What is going on? Why can no one else see this door?” The questions spill forth as shock seems to creep up on him.

The not-man steps forwards, hand reaching out again, but he stops, looking unsure. “I can explain it to you, just—please don’t leave. Not just yet. I haven’t—” he stops again, taking a deep breath. “You’re in shock. Let me help. Here, sit down by the water,” he says instead, gesturing to a moss-covered rock beside the pond.

Steve blinks, his breathing becoming more difficult. He shakes his head, fumbling in his pocket for his inhaler. Finding it, he shakes it and takes a few breaths with it, letting the medicine do its work. When he looks back to the not-man, he finds him staring, confused, at the inhaler. Steve puts it away and glances behind him again. Brooklyn is still there.

This is insane. He shouldn’t be thinking about going to sit by the water to get a closer look at the strange fish, or about sitting near the patch of lemon balm and peppermint to sketch the six-antlered deer that are nibbling carefully at a rose bush, picking off the rosehips. He should be turning around and pretending none of this ever happened, for the sake of his sanity. This is exactly why he avoids magic.

But. He’s been struggling to find a muse—to find _anything_ he wants to sketch or paint for _weeks._ And right now, it’s all he wants to do. He can’t begrudge himself that. And this not-man is looking at him with such an expression of desperation that Steve can’t help but feel like he should do what he can to help. And it’s all so _intriguing._ He wants to know everything about this place.

“I—” Steve stops, takes a deep breath, tries again. “One moment,” he says, and steps back onto the streets of Brooklyn. The heat of the city hits him like a punch, a stark contrast to the cool, sweet air of the glade. The door closes, the not-man’s dismayed face disappearing behind it.

Steve looks around himself. No one is looking at him. It’s like they don’t even know that he or the door are there. He looks back at the door again. Places a hand on the brass handle. Pushes.

The door opens.

The not-man looks up from where he had been staring at his feet, hope blooming over his face like a marigold opening for the sun. Steve steps over the threshold again and lets the door shut behind him. It makes a sound like a sigh as it closes.

Steve takes a deep breath. His hands hang at his sides and his jaw clenches, teeth mashing together as he attempts to make sense of what it happening. “What is this place?” he asks again, trying to pull a feeling of calm over himself.

The not-man lets out a gusting breath of relief, shoulders sagging. “This is the Lost Garden, like I said. No one has been here in one hundred years—no one but _me_ ,” he reveals, sounding eager to answer the question.

Steve blinks, bringing a hand up to rub at his temple. “Okay. Sure. What—who are you?”

At first, the not-man looks like he’s confused by the question, or like he’s forgotten the answer. But then he brightens, a smile sweeping across his stunning features and taking Steve by surprise. “My name is Bucky.”

“Bucky,” Steve breathes. Because of course this awe-inspiring creature’s name is _Bucky._ “I’m Steve.”

“Steve,” the not-man— _Bucky—_ repeats like it’s a prayer, his eyes glinting with happiness. “Steve,” he says again. “I’m sorry, I haven’t had guests in a while. Would you like to sit?”

Steve takes another, deep, steadying breath. “Please,” he says, because if he’s going to ask all the questions buzzing in his brain, he might as well be comfortable.

Bucky looks _delighted,_ immediately gesturing to the moss-covered rocks again, almost gliding over the ground as he hurries over to them. Steve follows slowly, glancing back at the door one more time. It’s still there, nestled in a hedge of hawthorn. He shakes his head and walks over to where Bucky is sitting on a rock now, his form buzzing with energy.

Steve settles down beside him. He’s nearly knocked back by the overwhelming scent of sweet violet that hits his nose. It’s _wonderful,_ and incredibly calming. He feels himself relaxing immediately, arranging himself into a comfortable position, glancing at the fish, then back to Bucky’s face.

“I have literally so many questions.” The statement spills out of Steve’s mouth without his say-so, and he winces at the way it sounds.

Bucky barely blinks, he simply looks eager. “Of course. What do you want to know?”

Well. Isn’t that a question? Steve huffs out a strained laugh. Where to start?

“Is this real?” he blurts, still completely unconvinced.

“Yeah, it’s real,” Bucky starts, that wonderful smile still dancing on his face, his head tilted to one side as he studies Steve with an intensity that should be off-putting but simply isn’t. “The door used to be open all the time so people could come and go as they pleased. They used to come here sorts of reasons—for herbs and healing and gardening tips and to make art, or just to sit and talk. I’ve been here for as long as I can remember. I think I was created with this place. ”

The information spills from Bucky without much prompting, leaving Steve’s head reeling again. How was any of this possible? Maybe he was dreaming. That could be it —that would explain everything. Maybe he’s fallen asleep in front of the fruit bowl, pencil smudges decorating his face. And if he’s dreaming, surely Steve could afford a little trust?

“What happened?” Steve asks gently, studying Bucky’s face as the not-man does to him.

Bucky shrugs, expression darkening. “I don’t know. I don’t—I don’t remember. I woke up one day and the door was shut. No one’s come through the door since then...until you.”

His voice is subdued, but then he frowns and looks at Steve as though seeing him in a new light. “How did you come through?” he asks.

Steve takes a moment to think. His story doesn’t make sense, but none of this does. “I was looking for something to draw,” he murmurs. “And I saw the door. It looked so out of place, and no one seemed to notice it, or me when I went up to it. I tried the handle and it just—opened. And here I am.” He still can’t really comprehend it.

“You opened it? Just like that?” Bucky looks at him with wonder in his eyes.

Steve shrugs, fiddling with the strap of his backpack. Bucky shakes his head like he can’t believe it, before reaching up to break a sprig of thyme off of his woven crown. He offers it to Steve, a shy smile on his face. Steve takes it, raising an eyebrow in question, his heart rate kicking up a notch.

“It helps with shock, and it tastes good,” Bucky tells him, the words falling out of his mouth, sounding like they’ve been said a hundred times.

Steve gives it a little sniff, a sharp sweetness hitting his nose. He doesn’t know much about herbs—nearly nothing at all—but something about Bucky makes Steve want to trust him. So he chews at the sprig, picking the small green leaves off with his teeth and taking a moment to taste them—an almost lemony tang—before he swallows.

Bucky beams, hand coming up to tuck a stray piece of hair behind his ear. The action is endearing and the blush that sweeps over Bucky’s cheeks is captivating. “Do you—do you have to go back soon?” he asks, the slight shake in his voice making the innocent question not so.

Steve should go. But. He feels so calm here, in a way that’s _exciting_ . He can feel his muse lifting its curious head and his fingers are constantly itching to draw _everything._ It’s so beautiful and Bucky is easy to talk to and— _gosh,_ Bucky hasn’t had anyone here in a hundred years. A lump lodges itself in Steve’s throat as he tries to imagine how lonely that must be.

“No, not yet,” Steve breathes, glancing around him. “Do you think you could show me around?”

Bucky grins, his eyes taking on a delighted glow. “Of course! It’s been so long—this place isn’t so big, the hawthorn bush goes all the way around, but there are the food gardens and the herbs and my hut. The deer don’t mind people—they’re used to me, so don’t worry about them if they come close.” He’s already on his feet, holding a hand out to Steve to help him up.

Steve blinks, reeling at the image of this place being any bigger than what he can see. He tells himself that this is impossible—he was in the middle of Brooklyn, the Botanical Gardens weren’t anywhere near here. But. He’s here and it feels so, so real. And; strange and impossible things  right?

So he takes Bucky’s hand, lets himself be helped up and follows the strange, other-worldly man deeper into the Lost Garden with barely a glance back at the door.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> link to Neutralchaos' art post on [tumblr](http://chaosdraws.tumblr.com/post/182901561346/beyond-that-door-is-a-sun-hazey-glade-filled-with) and [twitter!!](https://twitter.com/Neutralchaos1/status/1097638725402554369?s=09) go and give it some looooove!!


	3. Magic of the Garden

There is a food forest past the line of woodland trees, rich with fruits and nuts. Steve stares around him in awe as Bucky points out the various types of trees. “Persimmons, apples, pears, citrus, plums, loquats, kiwifruit, avocados, almonds, walnuts, macadamias, chestnuts,” Bucky’s listing, glancing at Steve every so often. Steve catches him smiling softly to himself, but he doesn’t linger on it—there is so much to look at. 

The branches of the fruiting trees hang heavy and they look well kept, from what little Steve knows about trees. Bucky mentions something about compost and feeder roots that boggles Steve’s mind, then goes on to point out different ‘understory’ plants. Like a trick of light, a lingering shadow seems to dart from between two borage clumps, and it sends a shiver down Steve’s spine. He blinks, and it’s gone. 

“This is comfrey,” Bucky’s murmuring, crouching down to brush his fingers over the broad leaves, lingering on the purple flowers. He seems to not have noticed the shadow. “It can help heal bruises, and it’s used to wrap fractures bones. I’ve heard it be called bone-knit, before.”

Steve kneels down beside him, still shaken, but maybe he imagined it? He feels far out of his depth. He glances at Bucky, takes in the soft look on his face and decides to let it go. Bucky’s fingers are still on the plant, and he looks focused, almost like he’s checking in on it. Steve shakes his head, drawn to a patch of bright flowers. “What are those?” he asks. 

Bucky blinks, looking away from the plant, appearing almost surprised. “Oh,” he breathes, a bright smile lighting up his face again. Steve blinks, taken aback by the blinding happiness; it makes his own heart thud in response. “Calendula and nasturtiums,” Bucky says, standing up to walk over to the flowers. 

“What are they for?” Steve finds himself asking, following Bucky. 

“Calendula is for the skin; externally it helps with scars, or eczema. It’s nice to eat, too. Nasturtium tastes like pepper, almost. It’s sweet, though,” Bucky smiles picking one of the bright red flowers. “Here, try it,” he offers, holding out the flower to Steve.

Steve takes it, presses it to his tongue. He’s surprised that it tastes exactly as Bucky had described; spares a brief moment on how he probably should have thought twice about accepting an unknown plant from someone he doesn’t know. 

They carry on through the understory, boggling Steve’s mind, Bucky happy to answer any questions he has, offering the properties of certain plants now and then. Steve learns kawa kawa is known as the heart of the forest; its heart-shaped leaf balances blood pressure and sugar, but also heals wounds and common colds. Kumarahou leaves expand airways; helping with asthma and other chest complains. 

There are so many more, but Bucky explains only a few; borage lifts mild depression and is good after an illness. Steve is almost glad Bucky doesn’t go into detail about every plant they see; he’s not sure how his brain is handling all the new information. Bucky leads him past the orchard, pointing out a stretch of garden beds that are full to the brim with various veggies; greens, carrots. Beans crawl up a trellis here, tomatoes there. 

“I don’t really have seasons here,” Bucky says quietly at one point. He sounds troubled and looks it as Steve studies his face. Bucky bites at his lip; maybe it’s a nervous habit? “I think—on Earth. You do? Someone, when the door was open, they pointed out that everything grows at once here.” 

He sounds unsure, and Steve wonders about it, but doesn’t ask. He guesses that one hundred years is enough time for someone’s memory to get a little hazy, but the assumption doesn’t quite sit right. He pushes the unbidden thought of the shadow he’d seen away. “Uh, yeah. We have four seasons,” he confirms. 

Bucky nods, presses his lips together and rolls his shoulders, shaking the strange moment away. “This is my hut,” he quickly changes the subject, gesturing at a small building raised up off the ground. 

Steve looks away from Bucky’s face and blinks in surprise. The hut is made from timber, the roof covered in patches. A passionfruit vine crawls across one wall while grapes climb another. There’s smoke coming from the chimney and the door is open. The whole hut is nestled in a patch of wildflowers, but a small path of flat stones trail their way to the door.

“Coming?” Bucky asks, drawing Steve from his wide-eyed observation. 

Steve just nods, follows as Bucky leads him inside. And as Steve looks around, he feels the breath go out of him. The space feels more like a home than he could have imagined. It’s warm; is the first thing he notices. The fire in the stove is barely more than embers, throwing orange toned light across the walls. 

There are baskets of dried herbs around the room and more hanging from a string on the ceiling. There is a box of harvested vegetables, a pile of clothes and a large amount of books stacked in a corner.There’s a sleeping mat on the floor against one wall, blankets piled at the foot.  On the wall above the mat there are two canvas paintings; one of poppies, the other of roses. 

Steve is aware his mouth is hanging open. It’s just...it’s all so simple, the space. Everything is either useful or a hobby. His gaze lingers on the paintings; he thinks of asking about them, but files it away for later instead.  _ Later,  _ he thinks wondrously.  _ There will be time, because this is real and I’m coming back. _

“It’s not much,” Bucky murmurs, startling Steve from his thoughts. “But it’s home.”

Steve shakes his head. “No,” he breathes. “This place…” he trails off in wonder. “There are no words.”

Bucky’s watching him, a tiny smile lifting the corners of his lips, making his silver eyes glimmer. “I’ve missed showing it to people. I’ve forgotten that others live differently,” he admits. 

Steve turns to him, a hand coming up to tug at his hair. “This is incredible. If people knew about this…” He leaves the rest of the sentence, still bewildered.

Bucky looks away, to the flickering fire. His expression is wistful, so soft and sad that Steve has the urge  to wrap him in a hug and comfort him for as long as he needs. The thought startles him. “I miss talking to people who have travelled the world to come here. I miss teaching people how to grow their own food, how to care for the plants like they’re their own children. I miss _people_ ,” Bucky says.

“I’m gonna come back,” Steve blurts, hand dropping from his hair to play with a loose thread on his shirt. “I have to—there are things in my...my  _ world  _ that I have to go back to, but I will come back. I’ll visit. I’ll try to leave the door open. Who knows, maybe someone else will stumble in.” A flash of jealousy surges through him as he says it, but he squashes the feeling, tutting at it in his mind. 

Bucky turns to him, relief and gratitude shining in his eyes. “You will? Oh, Steve,  _ thank you, _ ” he breathes, genuine happiness rolling off of him in waves. 

Steve startles as he finds himself wrapped in a sturdy hug, strong arms squeezing him gently. He hugs Bucky back, blinking at the warmth that Bucky carries. “It’s—it’s fine, Bucky. I  _ want _ to come back. I want to draw and paint every inch of this place and, god, just spend time here. If that’s okay?” He pulls back to look at Bucky as he checks. 

Bucky’s already nodding vehemently, a twinkle in his eye. “You’re an artist? Artists used to come here all the time to create. I loved it—they were always so happy to talk about their work; they could go on for  _ hours,”  _ he gushes. “Can I see some of your work?”

“Uh, I don’t have anything good with me at the moment,” Steve’s heads reels at the thought of other artists coming here;  _ people had painted this place. _ There were pictures of this place  _ out there.  _ “But I’ll bring some next time,” he promises. “And I’ll sketch something now, if you’d like.” He’s only too eager to do so; his fingers are practically itching. 

Bucky’s nodding, his smile stretched wide across his face. “Maybe we could go to the beach?” he suggests. “It’s really warm in here.” He looks bashful, rubbing the back of his neck.

Steve nearly chokes. “There’s a  _ beach? _ ”

Bucky shrugs. “Yeah, uh, just beyond those trees,” he says, pointing out the window to a line of towering pine. 

Steve’s gaping. He knows it. He can’t stop. He shakes his head, a little laugh breaking from him. “Please, let’s go to the beach.”

Bucky beams, holding out a hand. Steve looks at it, wonders when they had stopped holding hands. He’s not sure if it’s just something Bucky likes, or if it’s a—a  _ custom,  _ or whatever, but he’d enjoyed the warmth and comfort of it before. So he takes Bucky’s hand, lets him lead the way to the beach. 

He spares a glance back at the hut as they leave it, feeling something tug at his heart, but the scent of salt carried on the air shifts his attention to what lays before them. They walk away from the hut, from the gardens, and down a small slope. The pines act as a windbreakand ask they pass underneath them, ocean breeze sweeps Steve’s hair back from his face. 

And— _ oh.  _ There really is a beach. The sand is coral pink, soft and squeaky under their feet as they step out onto it. The water is smooth, barely a ripple of waves breaking the surface. Steve stares out at it in awe, taken aback yet again. The water seems to go on forever and Steve wonders at how big this world might be. 

“I—” he breaks off, lets out a breath. “I don’t have words.”

And Bucky  _ laughs,  _ a soft sound, one that warms Steve from head to toe. Steve suppresses the urge to shiver, instead shaking his head, trying again to comprehend everything. It’s one of those strange, impossible things, he thinks. Unexplainable. Simply there. He closes his eyes briefly. Shakes his head again. 

Clears his thoughts. “I’d  _ really  _ like to sketch something,” is all he says. 

Bucky grins. “Please,” he says, gesturing back towards the line of trees. “Choose anything,” he offers. 

Steve feels the slightest flush over his face and he looks away, only to peer back at Bucky a moment later. Despite all the beautiful things, there’s really only one he wants to sketch right now. “Can I draw you?” he asks, hoping it sounds like a simple request and not an excuse to study how pretty Bucky is. 

Bucky blinks, tilting his head to one side, as if he hadn’t thought of it. “Of course,” he says, and is that a blush dusting his cheeks?

They wander back into the shade of the pine trees at Bucky’s suggestion, each sitting against a trunk and facing each other. Steve retrieves his drawing pad and a pencil from his backpack and opens to a fresh page, getting comfortable. Bucky is smiling at him from where he’s reclined, one hand behind his head and the other resting at his lap. 

Steve blinks, looking down at his paper and then back at Bucky. “Tell me about some of the artists who used to come here,” he suggests, beginning to draw. 

Bucky’s only too happy to oblige. “There were many. From all over the world, they would come here and spend weeks, even months, sometimes. They would paint the sky, the pond, the plants, the sea. Sometimes...sometimes they would paint me, too.” The blush that travels down Bucky’s chest betrays how much he’d enjoyed it. “A few of them left me some paintings. Did you see them on the wall?”

“I did—they were beautiful,” Steve says, and it’s true—he could spend  _ days  _ gushing over other people’s art, let alone the incredible flower studies that had been painted for Bucky. 

On Steve’s page, Bucky is beginning to form. His hair, loose and wild, is pooling over his broad shoulders and spilling in waves down his bare chest. His face, so oddly and captivatingly angular, is difficult to draw but his eyes seem to want to be put on paper. The curve of his hips where he’s slumped against the tree comes naturally, but the fabric of the skirt is hard to capture. 

“There was one man who came a lot before the door closed. He would help with the gardens sometimes, or suggest things. He loved flowers—we planted poppies together.” There’s a wistful look in Bucky’s eye and Steve hurries to capture it. “I don’t know what happened to him. The door closed and the poppies died. I don’t think he would still be alive, now.” 

Bucky blinks, as if clearing the memory, and refocuses on Steve. Steve smiles at him gently, wondering if he could even try to comfort this lonely man who had lost so much. “What was his name?” he asks softly. 

This makes Bucky smile, and Steve traces the curve of his upper lip with his pencil on the paper. Then Bucky’s face twists, just a little. Maybe Steve wouldn’t have seen it if he weren’t studying Bucky so closely. He looks  _ confused,  _ even a little distressed. Darkness seems to flicker around him for a moment, and Steve’s hand stills, his heart giving an uneven thud. Then it clears, like it had never been there. “John,” Bucky murmurs, sounding wistful.

Steve pauses, taking a moment to recover. Instead of the strangeness of the inky black aura Bucky had seemed to carry for a moment, Steve forces himself to think back to the painting of the poppies he’d seen in Bucky’s hut. He presses his lips together,  _ wondering _ . His mind supplies the image of wilted calendulas among the blooming, and the thought seems wrong, somehow. Like the dying flowers hadn’t meant to be there. 

When he looks back at Bucky his brain stutters, changing route entirely. Bucky’s moved slightly, his head tilted to one side, his silver eyes half-closed as he watches Steve. Swallowing, Steve re-focuses on the now well-formed sketch of Bucky, tells himself he’s surely not blushing as much as he feels he is. 

“I think I’m nearly done,” he says, proud that his voice is steady. He’ll probably clean up the sketch later, fuss over it before leaving it. With a start he realises that he should probably be heading back soon—Nat must be worried about him, but Gods, he can hardly imagine leaving. 

He’s shaken by the realisation that he’s gotten comfortable here so quickly; it almost feels as though he’s been here many times before. Maybe it has something to do with how kind and endearing Bucky is; Steve just feels so  _ welcome  _ here. So at home.

“Steve?” Steve blinks, looking up from where he’d stopped drawing. Bucky’s watching him, looking a bit concerned. “Are you finished?” he asks. 

Steve shakes his head to clear his thoughts and gives Bucky a smile. “Did you want to see?” he asks, offering the sketch book to him. 

Bucky’s face lights up with a grin and he nods, taking the book and peering eagerly at the sketch. A surprised gasp slips from him and Steve finds himself nervous. He knows he’s good, he’s been practising for  _ years,  _ he’s gone to school. He’s been in galleries. It’s just. Bucky’s opinion really matters to him, he realises. Maybe it’s the fact that Bucky’s known great artists, but maybe it’s because the sketch is more than just that; it’s a confession.

Bucky’s face goes soft as his eyes  _ pour  _ over the image of himself. “This is beautiful,” he murmurs.  “Is this how you see me?” The questions seems like it’s almost an afterthought, Bucky’s eyes flickering up from the sketch. 

“Uh—yeah,” Steve replies, suddenly finding the grass incredibly interesting. Maybe he should have chosen something else? Something less...forward? But, no. Bucky had shown pieces of himself, made Steve feel welcome. Truth seems such a small thing to give in return. “You’re beautiful, Bucky.” he says, flushing.  

Bucky smiles at him, the expression desperately fond. Steve breathes out a sigh of relief; he’s not wrong-footed in saying these things. Then, as though some thought, some doubt, had just occurred to him, Bucky’s smile turns sad. “Are you sure you’ll come back?” he asks, voice all quiet. 

And despite Steve’s reassurance earlier, Steve understands the want for confirmation. So he reaches out, initiating the hand holding this time. It seems to soothe Bucky; his shoulders drop, his face smoothes out. “Yeah,” Steve says. “Yeah, I’m sure.” And he means it, too. 

As Bucky’s expression settles back into one of contented calm, Steve realises he’s not sure he  _ could _ stay away.


	4. Reminisce

Steve leaving is nearly as bad as the time Bucky realised that no one was coming back. That the door was shut and it wasn’t opening again. This time, when the door huffs shut, like it’s doing him and Steve a great favour by moving, all Bucky can do is hope that Steve will return and that the door will let him.

He can hardly believe it, not really. He looks back on the moment the door opened—he’d heard it,  _ felt  _ it. There had been a gust of hot, acrid air rushing into the glade. He’d turned and the door was  _ open  _ and  _ there was a man standing there.  _ Another person. Bucky hadn’t been in a human’s presence in a hundred years. Without warning Steve had stepped through the door and spent the day like he’d been here a thousand times before. 

It hurts Bucky’s heart, to think of the people who used to come here, the people who must have passed on by now. He’d once entertained the fantasy that when they died their spirit might come here, but. No one had. And then he’d forgotten there had been anyone at all. 

Shaking his head, Bucky snaps himself out of the muddled memories and steps away, back towards the patch of vetch beside the pond. He kneels beside the purple flowers, brushes his fingertips over the soft leaves, smiling to himself. The vetch is happy; he feels its emotions as though they’re his own. 

This world is all Bucky has ever known. When it was created, he had been woven into existence right alongside it. He’s connected to everything here; the plants whisper to him what they need and he murmurs back his thoughts and emotions. The soil is like a beating heart and Bucky’s own flesh-and-blood organ thumps in time with it. The trees sway with the wind, singing to Bucky, crooning as he sings right back. 

The vetch shivers under his hands, bringing Bucky back to the present. “I know,” he murmurs, picking a few leaves. “Always reminiscing, aren’t I?” 

The question is rhetorical; the vetch knows this. It sends out waves of exasperation, letting Bucky know he’s thinking too much. But he can’t help it, not really. If he doesn’t try to think about the past, about the gaping holes that are ripped into the fabric of his memory, he’ll lose himself. He knows this for a fact; it has almost happened before. 

He sees it; the echoes of his mind around him. He and his world are so intricately connected that it would be odd if there wasn’t signs of the holes in his mind reflected in the environment. There are darting, blots of shadows that stare at him from the corner of his eyes. Rotting plants that were doomed from the beginning, some that were strong one morning, dead the next, odd weather patterns that made themselves known on his worse days. 

He tries to understand it, he does. But the holes remain holes and he remains in the dark about it all. He’d almost forgotten about people entirely, a few decades after the door sealed itself shut. He’d almost forgotten himself. 

So he’d started talking to the plants, asking them to help him remember. He can’t get much from them but emotions, but some of the trees are just as old as he is. They remember without fault their shared past. But even they have holes in their memory; specific things they can’t remember, just as Bucky can’t. 

Bucky huffs, attention drifting to the fish swimming in lazy circles around the pond. Having only plants to talk to has changed him, he knows. He remembers as though looking through fog how good of a host he used to be.

And now, he’s drifting on the surface, tasting air he hasn’t dared to breathe in so long. Steve has reawakened old memories, old emotions; he’s reawakened the person that is  _ Bucky.  _ If there is a way to thank Steve, Bucky will have to find it. He hasn’t felt this alive in so long. He feels like he could float here in this feeling for days.

But there are things to do. He can’t sit at the water's edge and wonder over what has happened. He needs to set the vetch out to dry—and his stomach is  _ howling  _ at this point. Oh! He hadn’t even  _ thought  _ to offer Steve something to drink, something to eat. There had been so much else to think about.

He’ll be a better host next time. He knows exactly what he will prepare, as well. He’d been able to sense Steve’s ailments from the moment he’d placed foot in the glade. His lungs, heart, eyes. Steve very clearly isn’t weak, but he is plagued with niggling pain and sickness—and Bucky knows just what he can do to help him. 

Kawa Kawa for the heart, for helping the blood pump through the body. Kumarahou for the lungs; it will help clear any persistent cough, strengthen the organs, rid one of asthma. Lemongrass to sharpen eyesight, to boost the immune system. Herbs to heal, to help. And Bucky can give them to Steve, help make his life easier. 

At the thought, Bucky feels memories resurging, filling him to the brim. Memories of people coming to him for help to cure colds, coughs, aches, pains. Things more serious than that, too; an infected wound, broken bones, fevers that were sure to take a life. Nothing had filled him with such purpose or delight than when he was able to help those people. 

He hasn’t done it in a long time, but now he has the chance again.

He relishes the thought, laughs out loud at the happiness filling him. He’s so  _ high,  _ he’s nearly up-in-the-clouds. He feels lighter than a feather. At the same time, as though behind a wall, he feels a measure of anxiety. Maybe not all is as it seems. Why did the door open  _ now?  _

He watches the fish circle the pond, content in their life. He feels how the vetch is also content; as are many of the plants. Something is settled deep in his mind, preventing him from being so. He has been asleep, going through the motions and tending to the land with love and care, but he hasn’t thought of himself as a  _ self  _ in so very long. He’d forgotten. And now he is awake and it is pure magic—but it also makes him more aware of the blockages in his mind. The gaps in his memory.  

A push at his mind; impatience. The vetch pulls him from his thoughts. He huffs out a laugh and, with vetch in hand, he stands and walks towards his hut. On the way he checks the baby tomato plants that had gone in just the week before —they are lively and happy under the golden sun. He smiles, pleased, and carries on his way. Once at the hut, he places the vetch in a basket woven from flax and puts it up above the fire on the racks to dry. 

He’s behind in what he had planned to do today, but the sun has drifted low in the sky and dusk has stretched over his world. He could catch up tomorrow, he decides, already picking out vegetables to make a soup with. He quickly stokes the fire, dry pine needles bursting into flame, swallowing the branches and logs. 

Water simmers on the fire-stove, fresh greens added along with garlic and ginger. Potatoes boiled on the side, mashed with chilli and spring onions once they are done. Soothing chamomile and sweet violet tea sits steaming beside the plate and bowl and everything goes down warm and easy into Bucky’s stomach. The simplicity of it all clears his mind and the emptiness comes as a blessing. 

Afterwards, Bucky cleans up quickly, the ritual calming him further, perhaps as much as the tea. He wanders outside just as the first star appears, twinkling down at him like it is winking. An omen of life-changing things to come. He takes a moment to breathe, to process, then makes his way to the hothouse to water the seedlings there. 

Bucky’s often pondered the meaning of his existence, wondered if there were other worlds like his out there. Mostly he’s just wondered why he was created alone. He has heard the story of Adam and Eve; had it read to him by one of his many visitors. John used to read passages from the Bible as they lay under the stars by the poppies. He’d often compared Bucky’s garden to God’s Garden of Eden. Bucky had always replied with the same thing; if it were so, where was his partner?

The thing is, Bucky doesn’t age, doesn’t get sick. He’s stronger than Earth’s people, has keener senses. He was created with the instinct to care for his world, to heal other people when they come here. But is it a curse that he is alone with this? Is it meant as a blessing? Is there a purpose? 

It’s all a mystery. He had accepted that long ago. But it’s usually late in the evening as he’s watering his seedlings that these thoughts come into his mind. He often goes to bed with his head reeling and his thoughts a tangled mess. 

This happens tonight, as he lays down on the mat and drags the blankets up over his body, huffing out a sigh.  _ Tomorrow will come,  _ he thinks.  _ And Steve will be back again soon. He promised.  _ The thought sends him to sleep with a smile on his face. 

He dreams of shiny black hair, black and emerald green the prominent colour scheme. Ice-blue eyes gaze emotionlessly at him as his mind is torn apart. Pale hands clutch at his head and he wakes screaming, sweating. He doesn’t remember much else, but he gets up early and goes for a swim to clear his head. 


	5. The Sweetness of Violets

Steve had gotten back just before dark, but the apartment had been quiet. He’d slept fitfully, thinking about Bucky and unable to clear his mind enough. He kept waking up, checking his sketchbook to make sure the previous day hadn’t been a dream. By morning, he’s poorly rested and exhausted, but he’s woken by the sound of Clint’s loud laughter. 

Steve gets up reluctantly, although encouraged by the smell of reheated pizza and warm coffee. He walks into the kitchen in time to see Nat receive pizza sauce all over her face. Clint is wiping his pizza-sauce-covered hand on his shirt, grinning. Steve shakes his head, makes for the coffee.

“Hey Steve!” Clint exclaims, gesturing at the pizza while grabbing some for himself. 

Steve opens his mouth to reply, but Nat speaks over him. “Find anything to paint yesterday, oh happy-face?” she says around a mouthful of cheese and dough. 

Steve makes a face at her, settling down in the free chair at their tiny table. “I did, in fact, find some inspiration,” he admits. 

Clint  _ whoops,  _ throwing his hands up in the air with a delighted grin on his face. Nat makes a face at the noise, before swallowing her pizza and leaning back in her chair with a hand on her belly. “Do go on,” she encourages, looking intrigued. And fair enough; she’s lived through Steve’s art-blocks before, made fun of him till he got his ass into gear. 

Out of pure I-owe-you-so-many-debts, Steve gathers his courage and spits out; “I found a doorway to another world.”

He’s met with silence. Clint’s chewing breaks it and Steve presses his lips together, watching Nat’s suddenly stony face. “Magic’s been dying out, Steve,” she says finally. “Why would there be an open doorway to another world  _ now?  _ After all this time?”

“It’s real, Nat,” Steve promises. “I don’t know why it’s open now, but it  _ is.”  _ He’s almost trying to convince himself, too. But he knows it’s real; it’s like a string in his heart gets plucked everytime he thinks about it, sounding true. He also knows that, if his assumptions are right and Nat is of magic, then she must be affected by his find in ways a human wouldn’t be. 

She fixes him with a searching look, like she’s seeing into his very soul. Her eyes, so green, seem to shine, but eventually she just nods, her jaw unclenching like she’s forcing herself to remain calm. “Well, what’s in the world?” she asks. 

Steve breathes out in relief, takes a sip of his coffee to prepare himself for the ensuing conversation. Clint is clearly listening, but mostly focused on pizza. Steve sighs, setting his cup down. “It’s a small one. Apparently it’s been shut for a hundred years, but, uh, the guy there—Bucky—he doesn’t know why. He’s the only one there,” he says quietly, reaching for pizza. 

Nat raises an eyebrow, something akin to surprise bleeding all over her face before she slaps on indifference. She cradles her own cup of coffee close, glancing down at it. “He’s not human, is he?” she guesses, though it sounds more like a statement. 

“No,” Steve shakes his head, his mind helpfully taking him back to the way Bucky walks, the colour of his eyes, the way he cared for his plants like he understood them. The fact that he’s over one hundred years old and looks not a day over thirty. “No, not entirely.”

“You going back there?” Clint speaks up, filling his coffee cup.  

Steve nods, avoids Nat’s narrowed eyes. “Yeah, uh, today, actually.”

“Is this about painting or is it about this ‘Bucky’,” Nat questions, her tone a little harsh. Steve knows it’s because she’s worried about him; he can almost see the thoughts running through her mind.  _ Steve, what the fuck, why would you just go into a random magic world that suddenly opened, why do you never care about your safety, you’re an idiot, Steve. _

Steve sighs. “It can’t be both? Look, the place is  _ amazing,  _ it’s all I want to paint, and so what if Bucky is a nice person to hang out with? I feel safe there.”

“What if the door shuts again and you’re trapped?” Nat demands, knuckles white around her cup handle. “What if it isn’t all as it seems?” 

Steve runs a hand over his face, trying not to let on how close the words ring true. He pushes the thoughts of shadows and dying plants out of place in such a beautiful world away. “Nat. Please,” he begs. “Stop mothering me. If you know something, just tell me.”

Nat presses her lips together and looks away, scowling. Clint clears his throat, picking up the last piece of pizza. “You should tell Thor about this,” he suggests tentatively, looking uncomfortable at the tension. “He’d probably know how to get you out if it closed.” 

Steve nods. None of them mention that the reason for that is Thor’s affinity with the so-called ‘dying out’ magic. “I plan to. Look, I’ll, uh, see you guys later, okay? Nat, I promise I’ll be fine,” he says the last part gently, standing up.

Nat closes her eyes briefly, lets out a heavy breath. “I will kill you if something happens to you, okay?” she grits out. 

Steve laughs, relieved she’s not too angry at him; just worried. He knows her for this; always watching over him, too attached to her friends  _ not _ to be over-protective. He wonders, not for the first time, what her history is. Where she came from and what had brought her here? He knows whatever she went through, it wasn’t good. He knows she’s lost a lot. So he’s patient with her and never gets too angry at her mothering. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less, Nat,” he says. She grunts at him in response. Clint is already up making more coffee, so Steve stands, grabs his backpack, drops his cup in the sink and heads out the door with a cheery ‘Goodbye!’ 

He resolves to question Thor after work tomorrow, or at least get him around to the apartment to chat about the doorway. He almost doesn’t want to, but he knows it’s a good idea to have someone else in on this. The only reason he doesn’t want to tell anyone is, well. So he can have the place all to himself. But he can’t and  _ won’t _ do that.  

He pushes it all from his mind and focuses on where he’s going. He wonders if the door will even be there, or if he really had imagined it all. He hurries along the streets and finds the door exactly where it was yesterday. Again, his breath is knocked out of him. Again, no one seems to notice him or the door. When he grabs the handle and twists it, he feels euphoric as it opens; it leaves him breathless. 

The glade is exactly where it was yesterday. Still there.  _ It’s real,  _ Steve thinks.  _ It’s real and Bucky’s real and I’m not going mad.  _ The realisation shocks him. He grins and steps into Bucky’s world, letting the door shut behind. And—Bucky’s right there, bounding towards him. 

“Steve! You came back!” 

The excitement emanating from Bucky pulls a delighted laugh from Steve and he opens his arms as if on instinct, letting Bucky fall into them. 

“Of course I did! I brought paints with me, this time,” Steve says, even though painting is hardly the first thing on his mind right now. He breaths in Bucky’s sweet violet scent and feels like he’s come home. The thought startles him. 

Bucky pulls away first. His expression is radiant—his silver eyes seem to glow and the colour in his cheeks is something out of a movie. 

“That’s so great! I made tea, would you like some? I’ve got a lot to do today, but let’s have some breakfast first,” Bucky barrels on, nearly vibrating from excitement. “If you’d like, of course,” he amends, looking at Steve for an answer.

Steve just nods. “I’d love some tea,” he says with an endeared smile, already getting used to Bucky’s eccentrism. 

_ “Wonderful,”  _ Bucky breathes, grinning. He leads Steve towards his hut, through the food forest. “What are you going to paint today?” 

Steve shrugs. “I’m not sure yet, I’ll wait and see where you’re working.”

Bucky blinks at him, a pleased smile gracing his face. “I’ll be in the herb gardens. I need to rest some of the beds there—the soil isn’t doing too well,” he murmurs, holding the door to his hut open for Steve. 

“Thanks,” Steve says, stepping inside. He settles down on the mat that Bucky gestures to and jokes, “I’m guessing resting beds doesn’t include putting a blanket over them?” 

The kettle is just starting to whistle from where it sits on the fire—Bucky must have put it on and then run to the door when Steve came in. 

“Well, kind of, actually,” Bucky informs him, taking the kettle and moving over to the minimal bench space, getting out two cups. “I need to dig it, loosen the soil and replace the nutrients that have been used by the plants that were in the bed over the year.” 

Bucky picks up various dried herbs and sniffs at them, putting some in the cups and others back down with a shake of his head. 

Steve watches him. He can’t help it—Bucky’s shirtless again, and his body is something Steve can’t help but want to paint. That and he’s so incredibly endearing as he puts the teas together. Steve takes the steaming cup as Bucky hands it to him, bringing it to his face so he can inhale, breathing in the herbs. 

“What’s in this?” he asks, looking to Bucky. 

“Lemongrass, kawa kawa and kūmarahou,” Bucky says with a sheepishness that tells Steve the herbs weren’t randomly chosen. Steve remembers the herbs being mentioned yesterday, but he can't think of what their properties were. He narrows his eyes in concentration and takes a sip. 

The taste of what he assumes is the lemongrass hits his tongue first, sharp and cooling. It’s good, and the heat of the drink clears his ever-congested chest a bit. He can't tell the difference between the other two herbs, but a clear, distinct taste comes right after the lemongrass, almost mixing with it. As he swallows, a slightly bitter, liquorice-like taste seeps down the back of his tongue and throat and he frowns, unsure if he likes it or not. 

“It's good,” he decides, looking up at Bucky.

Bucky grins at him with a twinkle in his eye. “Didn’t think it would be?” he teases, sipping at his own tea with a raised eyebrow. 

Steve sputters, feels his cheeks flush. “I—no, that’s not—” he pauses, purses his lips to stop the smile. “You’re teasing me,” he mutters, before returning to the tea to hide his growing smile. 

“I would never,” Bucky proclaims, moving around the small space, gathering a knife and something wrapped in cloth. The smell of warm basil and fresh bread fills Steve’s nose as Bucky sits down, bringing the items to sit in the middle of them. “I made this last night,” Bucky explains. “When the door was open I used to trade my veggies for things like flour and grains—there’s not much room to grow them here. I’m running low, but I wanted to make this for us to share.”

And. Bucky looks  _ so  _ shy in this moment that Steve’s whole being pauses as he watches him. The way Bucky’s chin is nearly to his chest, his eyes flickering from the bread to Steve, his fingers picking at a loose seam on his pants. It’s almost painful, the realisation that Bucky is so eager to please, so desperate for Steve to hang around. Steve swallows, reaching out with his free hand and taking one of Bucky’s. 

He squeezes Bucky’s hand as Bucky looks up at him, eyes wide. Steve smiles reassuringly at him. “I’m not going anywhere, Buck. Thank you for the bread, it smells beautiful,” he says softly, chest feeling swollen as Bucky’s throat bobs and he squeezes Steve’s hand back. 

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky murmurs. “Shall we eat some and get out there? It’s a glorious day.”

Steve nods, pulling his hand back and returning to his tea as Bucky cuts slices off of the bread. Steve makes a silent promise to himself that he will bring a huge bag of flour for Bucky when he visits next. As Bucky’s cutting the bread, chattering away about what he’s up to today—the beds he needs to clear and cover, the plants that have gone to seed that he needs to collect—Steve’s attention drifts to the paintings on the wall he'd seen briefly yesterday. 

There are two canvases, one of a sprawling field of poppies, the other of a garden filled with sky-reaching roses. They’re clearly done by two different artists, though the style is quite similar. They’re surrounded by drawings on paper, tacked to the wall. Some of the drawings are of Bucky, some of other people, most of the Garden. 

Bucky hums, bringing Steve’s focus back to him. Bucky looks amused, holding out a piece of bread. There are crushed herbs spread on it and it smells amazing. “Oh, uh, sorry—thank you, I was listening, I was just…” Steve trails off, taking the bread and looking back at the paintings in explanation. He feels like he knows the style of the rose painting, feels like it's familiar.

“I get it. Artist brain,” Bucky says in a way that lets Steve know that he really  _ does  _ get it. “The poppies are done by the man I told you about—John. It's of the poppies we grew. The roses are a gift from a man who visited only once or twice—his name was Claude. He used to talk to me about his garden back home, so he painted this to show me.” 

Steve stares at him, caught off guard again. “ _ Claude?”  _ he asks, mouth hanging open, because he  _ knew _ he recognised the painting. “Claude  _ Monet?” _

“You know him?” Bucky asks, eyes lighting up. “Is he…?” he trails off, mouth turning down, eyes flicking away towards the painting, dim with old memories.

Steve steadies himself, squashes the fan in him back down as Bucky sags. 

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve murmurs. “He, uh, he got real famous. His paintings are in museums all over the world. He’s, uh, not alive anymore, no.”

Bucky nods, like none of this is news. “He was a great man,” is all he says. Then he takes a deep breath and shakes himself. “I’ve already mourned them. It’s just something else, hearing for sure that they’re dead” 

“You don’t have to justify your emotions to me, Buck,” Steve says. “I couldn’t imagine what you’re going through.” He pauses, the moment hanging heavy in the air like fog. Bucky takes a breath and seems to begin gathering himself, and Steve does the same, letting the heaviness slide away.

“Now,” Steve says softly, taking a bite of the bread. “Just as I suspected, this bread is  _ amazing.  _ Where did you learn how to bake like this?” 

Bucky looks up, eyes glittering with gratitude. He smiles, taking a bite of his own bread and washing it down with the last of his tea. “I used to harass the local bakers, get them to tell me all their secrets.”

“They just gave them away?” Steve asks, trying to imagine  _ Bucky,  _ very clearly not-quite-human Bucky, walking down the streets of olden day Brooklyn. 

Bucky just winks at him, shoving more bread in his mouth in lieu of answer.  _ That probably shouldn’t look as cute as it does,  _ Steve thinks, fighting the blush. Bucky stands up, offering a hand to Steve. Steve takes it, lets himself be helped up. 

“Shall we go outside now? I should get started,” Bucky says apologetically.

“Of course! I think I dreamt about painting this place last night,” Steve admits, following Bucky outside as he finishes his bread. 

Bucky laughs; a bright, sudden sound. A few birds startle from where they’d been sitting in the nearby trees. The sun, ever golden, shines down on them and warms Steve in places he hadn’t known were cold. 

They spend the day close; Steve settling down in the grass near the vegetable gardens, paints, brushes and paper spread out around him. He paints the scene in front of him, fussing over the little details of plants he can’t quite get. Mostly, he focuses on getting the planes of Bucky’s bare back just right, trying to capture the sturdy muscle there. 

Bucky spends the day digging up old plants, vegetables that’d done their season, clipping off the tops of the ones that’d gone to seed. He places the seeds carefully in a basket to process later, and—god. Steve hasn't done a close-study of someone, a life drawing, in so long, but. He wants to spend hours pouring over Bucky, painting every little detail of him. He’s so  _ captivating.  _

Watching Bucky so closely, Steve can’t possibly miss the subtle darkness that seems to hover around him like a cloak. It’s tame, barely there, but sometimes Steve’s eyes catch it in his periphery. He wonders if he’s really seeing it, because Bucky doesn’t seem to notice. 

Steve sips his water, telling himself it’s the heat of the day that’s got his throat so dry. 

By the time Bucky’s put dropped green manure, more compost, seaweed, hay and watered it all with what he explains is comfrey fertiliser, or ‘tea’, it’s nearly sunhigh. Steve starts packing up his paints as Bucky drags a mat tightly woven from flax over the now resting garden beds, covering them securely for the next three months. 

Steve can’t help but watch as Bucky straightens, clapping his hands together to get some of the dirt off. Bucky is covered in sweat which has the soil sticking to his body and his long hair damp around his forehead. The rest of his hair is pulled back into a braid that rests halfway down his back. Steve feels...slightly off-kilter as Bucky looks up from his work and grins at Steve, stepping around the garden beds and making his way over.

“Are you hungry? We can go the orchard—the windfall oranges have just gotten sweet,” Bucky says, crouching down beside Steve and looking over his painting, which is halfway done. Steve watches Bucky’s face light up, trying to gather his words. “This is amazing! Oh, Steve, wow,” Bucky gushes, leaning just that little bit closer to get a better look. 

Steve stills the thought that comes to him to whisper about how he’d nearly painted the shadowy hue around Bucky’s form. He nearly mentions it, wonders what the answer to it could be. “Thanks, Buck,” he says instead. “Oranges sound good.”

Bucky smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “If you’re up to it, we could go find the deer after. They’re, uh, nice to just watch sometimes.” His voice sounds almost  _ bashful.  _

“That sounds real nice, Buck,” Steve says, hoping he doesn’t sound too strangled. 

With his confirmation, Bucky grins and stands up, holding his hand out again. Steve takes it, and this time their hands don’t part as they walk towards the abundant orchard. They pick through the fallen fruit, find the juiciest and best-looking ones. They sit together underneath the towering woodland trees and break open their fruit. They feast, the juices running down their chins and hands. 

“What do you have planned for the rest of the day?” Steve asks, finishing off a mandarine. He feels like he could easily eat at least thirty of them—they’re  _ so good.  _ Fresh, like no supermarket food he’s ever had. The closest he can compare is with the farmers market Nat likes to go to. 

Bucky shrugs, licking his lips and chasing a drop of juice down his chin, his whole tongue sticking out to try and catch it. It looks ridiculous and Steve can't help but smile. “Put the seeds I saved up to dry, definitely. Water the seedlings, sow some silverbeet and chillies,” Bucky pauses, looking thoughtful. “And I think I need to set up some trellises for the tomatoes.”

“Do you want some help?” Steve doesn’t know jack about gardening, but he’s been eating Bucky’s food all day—he wants to contribute. 

Bucky sits up a little straighter, looking delighted. “Do you want to? That would be real nice.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to explain to me what to do, though,” Steve admits, wiping the last of the citrus juice from his mouth. 

Bucky’s eyes flicker down to follow the movement, then back up, a soft smile on his face. “I don’t mind,” he says, standing up. “We’ll water the seedlings, first.” 

The hothouse is  _ hot.  _ The day is warm but inside the hothouse where all the seedlings are germinating and growing has Steve sweating immediately. He wipes away the beads on his forehead, takes the watering can Bucky hands him and listens intently to the brief instructions. He watches Bucky start, first, because he really doesn’t want to mess it up. 

Bucky waters the seedlings with such care it near takes Steve’s breath away. He tries to mimic it, figures it’s going okay because the baby plants don’t droop immediately after the can rains on them. After a while, he gets more confident and kind of loses himself in the work, noticing how some of the seedlings are not doing so well. He points that out to Bucky, who shakes his head and says he’s keeping an eye on them. They were old seeds, he says. 

After they’re done, Bucky leads Steve back outside to where there are stacks and stacks of pots and wooden trays. Bucky picks two trays out, fills them with potting mix. “It’s made from topsoil and bits of pumice,” he explains. “I get the pumice from the sea and the topsoil from old garden beds that will get built up again over time.” 

They carefully plant the trays out with silverbeet and chillies, watering them with even more care than they applied to the seedlings. The trays go into the hothouse after. “I’m beginning to see just how much work this place is,” Steve comments when they’re done.  

“It’s not like I have anything else to do,” Bucky murmurs, brushing his hands clean again. 

Steve does the same, picking at the dried dirt on his palms. He bites his lip, not sure what to say to that. “What’s your favourite part of this place?” he asks instead. 

Bucky looks up from his hands, the sorrow leaving as quick as it had come. “Where the deer are. Come on, I’ll show you. The trellises can wait.” He holds out his hand, eyes shining. 

Steve takes it, squeezing it reassuringly. He walks alongside Bucky, swinging their hands between them with an unusual air of familiarity, as though they’ve done this a hundred times. Steve wonders at it; the ease at which they’ve fallen into comfort with each other. 

They walk past the pine trees and onto the beach. Steve can’t help but pause to take in the sight again. He wants nothing more in this moment than to spend hours painting the sea. With a sigh, he takes a step forwards to let Bucky know he wants to keep going. It’s warm enough for a swim, here. Maybe tomorrow. He spares a thought for what might be in the sea; it looks as never-ending as Earth’s. 

They wander on down the beach, Steve having kicked off his shoes that morning. His toes dig into the coral sand, his eyes take turns watching Bucky’s face and staring out to sea. Eventually they’re walking on grass again, up a small hill. They get to the top and Steve finds himself staring down at a forest, the canopy short but bushy. Among the trees there weave the deer he’d seen on the first day, crowns of six antlers on their heads. 

Steve sucks in a breath, unconsciously squeezing Bucky’s hand. He doesn’t realise he’s doing it till Bucky squeezes back. “Bucky, this is beautiful,” he murmurs. 

“I know,” Bucky replies, voice just as soft. “I like to come up here and just watch them. They’re so peaceful, they never fight. They move like they’re one, they all care for the eldest and the youngest equally.”

Steve shakes his head, attention drawn to one of the smaller deer who is nibbling at a patch of grass near the edge of the trees. It doesn’t have all its antlers yet, and the ones it does have are small, rounded at the tops. It pauses, like it knows Steve is watching, and looks up, right at them. Steve sucks in a breath, but the deer just scents the air before turning and wandering back to what Steve presumes is its mother or father. 

“I can see the appeal,” Steve says. “They’re incredible.” 

Bucky makes a soft noise and when Steve turns to look at him, his heart skips a beat. The expression on Bucky’s face is peaceful, as though right here, right now, he is at his most contented state of being. Steve studies him while he has the chance, aware that he’s staring, that his mouth is hanging open just a little. 

Steve’s heart thuds in his chest as Bucky turns to look at him, and he looks away, feeling the blush crawl up his neck. He smiles to himself, just a little. He recognises the feeling growing in his chest. He knows what it could turn into. For now, though, he’s happy to bathe in this feeling of nowness. 

When he has to head back, he leans up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Bucky’s cheek. Bucky grins at him, silver eyes dancing in the evening light, sees him off at the door with a little wave. 

Steve walks home with the paintings under his arm, a dopey smile on his face, a skip in his step.


	6. The Whirlwind of Waking Life

Nat, while full of questions, seems mostly pleased to see Steve when he arrives home. He promises to answer everything she has to ask in the morning; right now all he wants is to sit on his bed, stare at his paintings and recount everything that has happened over the past two days. 

Nat relents, eyes drifting to the paintings. She raises an eyebrow, a little smile on her face. “I’m glad you’ve found your muse,” is all she says, before letting him escape to his room. 

Steve lets out a small laugh, feeling loose and happy like he hasn’t in awhile. He can still hardly believe everything that’s happened; it’s surreal, mind boggling. He’s dabbling in the strange and impossible like he never thought he would, and what’s more? He feels at home there. He shakes his head at himself, unable to wipe the smile from his face. 

As he settles on his bed, shucking his shoes off, he pulls out the paintings and sketches he’d started today. He pours over them, something inexplicable tugging at his heartstrings. It’s as Nat said; he’s found his muse again, in the Lost Garden. He hums, gaze flickering to the half-formed image of Bucky and he thinks—maybe it wasn’t just the place; maybe his muse lays in this strange and impossible not-man, too. 

The thought makes him close his eyes and take a slow, deep breath. When he lets it out, he clears his mind to focus on what he promised he would do. Tomorrow, he’ll ask Thor some very odd questions. Something tells him that even if Thor might have all the answers, he might not want to hear them. 

Exhaustion coming over him like a wave , Steve rubs a hand down his face and undresses, crawling under the covers to sleep; he has an early day tomorrow, and Nat will have her questions. 

Sleep finds him easy, fills his dreams with the scent of sweet violet, the image of golden skies and silver eyes. In the morning, he doesn’t remember the hovering shadow looming over the dreamscape. 

__________ 

Nat doesn’t forget her questions, come morning. She hands Steve a coffee and sits across from where he is sketching at the table. “What’s it like?” she asks when he sets his pencil down. 

“Unreal,” Steve says, before pursing his lips and frowning. “But I’ve never felt more...alive, than when I’m there.”

Nat studies his face, a small smile twitching at the edge of her mouth. “And what’s  _ he  _ like?”

Steve can feel his cheeks flush, and he looks away. “He’s impossibly kind. Incredibly smart. He’s, uh, got some memory loss. Doesn’t know why the door shut,” he pauses, a grin sliding over his face. “He has a  _ Monet  _ hanging on his fucking wall, Nat.”

Nat snorts, nearly spitting out her mouthful of coffee. “And you’re freaking out about it, yeah?” she states. “How? Why?”

Steve shakes his head, looking down at the sketch. It’s of the hut, but a shadow is cast over the sun. The lines of the drawing are dark and harsh, the shading rough. “He used to visit Bucky. Apparently they were  _ friends,”  _ he says, aware of how his voice sounds slightly strangled. 

Nat tilts her head back, laughing. When she looks at him again, her expression is soft. “You really like him, huh?” 

Steve looks back up at Nat and closes his eyes, smiling softly. “I really do,” he murmurs, knows it’s true. Bucky is  _ endearing,  _ he makes Steve’s heart flutter. Steve knows a crush when he gets one; and he’s always been one to fall fast. 

Two days, he realises suddenly.  _ Two days,  _ that’s how long he’s known Bucky, how long it’s been since he found the Lost Garden. It feels like it’s been half a life-time. And—two days is all it took for Steve to fall head-first into what damn well could turn into love, if he lets it. He loves easy; he  _ knows  _ so, he’s been told so. But this—this is, well. Strange and impossible. 

Steve huffs a laugh at himself, shakes his head and finishes his coffee. Nat simply raises an eyebrow at him and stands, grabbing her bag. They walk out of the apartment together; Steve heading to the bakery for his Monday shift, Nat to the gym where she teaches self-defense. 

Nat questions him more about Bucky and his world, curious now that she seems sure it’s not going to be an immediate danger to Steve. Steve answers her to the best of his ability; tells her about the deer and the gardens, Bucky’s herbs and the way he smells. Which—okay, yeah, Steve is falling in deep, which Nat points out gently, a smirk on her face. Steve very carefully leaves out any mention of the stranger,  _ darker  _ things that seem to hover at the edges of everything. He wonders if Nat can sense he’s holding anything back; she’s always had an uncanny ability to read him and his emotions. 

They part ways at the cafe just as the sun peeks over the horizon. “I’ll see you tomorrow; I’m gonna go see Bucky again tonight and I probably won’t be back before dark,” Steve tells her, hand hovering on the door to the cafe. 

Nat quirks an eyebrow at him, but just smiles, soft and secretive. “Bring me something to make tea out of, yeah?” Nat requests, pressing a kiss to Steve’s cheek. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees, turning to the door as she glides away. Thor’s already there at the cafe, by the looks of it; the lights are on and there’s coffee steaming on the counter. He waves Nat off before heading inside, flipping the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open.’ 

Thor appears from the tiny kitchen they have in the back, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He’s covered in flour and a wide grin stretches across his face. His hair’s cropped short and a mottled scar covers one milky eye. He’s huge; the sight of him is at first intimidating, at second straight up artistically pleasing. Steve has done more than one painting of him, countless sketches filling his books. 

“Steve!” Thor exclaims, brandishing a mug of coffee of his own. 

Steve picks up the waiting coffee on the counter and sets his backpack down, smiling at his not-quite-human friend. “Morning, Thor,” he greets. 

“How was your weekend?” Thor asks, sipping at his coffee and fixing him with a curious stare, like he already  _ knows  _ something has happened. 

Steve shrugs, coming around the counter to start fiddling with the espresso machine. “Yeah, about that. I, uh, wanted to ask you some questions.”

“Well, you’ve got me intrigued,” Thor says. He leans against the counter, head tilted just so. 

Steve shakes his head, testing the steam wands; sometimes the other barista forgets to clean them after work. “You’ll just have to wait and see,” he states, half-distracted by getting ready for the day and half-nervous about what he’s going to tell Thor. Will he think him mad? No, of course he wouldn’t; not with Thor being magic himself. He’s an entirely unflappable guy.  

“Does it have something to do with that strange energy you’re carrying around with you?” Thor asks. He narrows his eyes—both deep blue and milky—at Steve. 

Steve looks up at him sharply, blinking in surprise, his heart skipping a beat. “Strange energy?” 

“You’re covered in it,” Thor says and completely doesn’t elaborate. 

Steve frowns, feeling flustered. Strange energy? What, was he carrying a—a  _ bug,  _ or something? It clearly had something to do with Bucky’s world, but he refuses to believe it has anything to do with the shadows. He can’t pretend to understand any of this, let alone decipher Thor’s cryptic words. “What do you mean?” Steve presses. 

Thor just winks, turning away and sauntering back into the kitchen, presumably to finish making the pastries for the morning. “You’ll just have to wait and see!” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing, a cheery whistle starting up, floating through the air and crackling like lightning in Steve’s ears. 

Steve winces, shaking his head. “Guess I deserved that,” he mutters, before grabbing an apron and washing his hands. He had to push all of this out of his mind for now; lunch break. Then hopefully he would get some answers. But—he looks down at his forearms, frowns at his skin, wonders at what Thor had said. Then he huffs, trying to forcibly empty his busy head. 

The bell at the front door jingles then and the first customer comes in with a smile on their face. And so the work morning begins. Steve makes coffee after coffee, clears table after table, makes small talk with every customer. Thor comes out with fresh blueberry muffins and slips one to him just as he starts feeling a bit frazzled.

By the time the lunch rush is over, Steve is positively vibrating out of his skin. They close up not long after three, and Steve can’t help but keep glancing at the clock. When the last customer leaves, Steve waves goodbye to them and flips the ‘open’ sign to ‘closed’, shutting the door with a jingle of the bell. 

Thor comes back out of the kitchen with a strange smile on his face. Steve gets the feeling he knows much more about what Steve wants to talk about than he’s letting on. 

Thor sets two plates of chocolate cake down, and pushes over a coffee for Steve to sip at. He’s got his own mug, and he raises it to his lips to cool down. 

“Your questions are burning. Ask away,” he says, and there’s something in his voice that tells Steve he’s been working up to this all day. 

“I found a doorway to another world,” Steve says, looking down at his coffee. When he glances back up at Thor, the guy just seems smug, like he’s gotten something right. 

“Is it the one just around the corner?” Thor asks, something like stilted excitement in his voice. 

Steve looks at him in surprise. “You—you know it?” he stammers.

Thor shrugs. “Sure. I visited a few times, before it was locked away.” Something dark sweeps over his face, something sorrowful and tinged with a troubled hue. It reminds Steve of the shadows in Bucky’s world. It flickers away as soon as it comes. 

Steve blinks, his heart hammering. Bucky had told him the door shut 100 years ago. “Why does no one know about it?” he asks quietly.

Thor expression turns slightly bitter. “It was closed, unseen by human eyes,” he explains. “And magic has been fading quickly.”

Steve clears his throat, picks up a piece of chocolate cake to busy his hands. “What do you know?” he asks him quietly. 

Thor looks at him, clenches his jaw and closes his eyes, sighing. “It’s something that can be called a pocket dimension,” he says, picking up a slice of chocolate cake. “It was created an age ago to be a safe haven for those of good and kind intent, along with a few like it. There is probably information about the other worlds in the old archives; they were well-known in the days of magic.”

Steve stares at him, brain spinning in circles. He  _ knew  _ Thor wasn’t human, but having it plain in front of him like this was still startling. And—there was more than one place like Bucky’s? “And Bucky was created with it?” he questions. 

Thor nods, swallowing a bite of chocolate cake. “Bucky is the name they are using?” he says, looking briefly surprised. He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head in amusement. “They were never named by their creator; I had always wondered if they would name themselves.”

Steve blinks sluggishly, attempting to keep up. “Uh, Bucky goes by he and him pronouns,” he says, before narrowing his eyes. “His creator?” 

“Good to know,” Thor nods, before leaning forwards on his elbows, tilting the table a little. “What do you know about Norse mythology, Steve?” 

Steve fish-mouths. It’s the only word for what his face does in response to Thor’s insinuation. “Not much?” he squeaks, then clears his throat. “Uh, what’re you saying?” 

Thor quirks a little secretive smile that tells Steve all he needs to know. “In the times of raging war, Odin created Bucky’s world to be an escape for those who needed it. He made Bucky to be the host, a landvættir, if you will, to take care of those who went to seek shelter, to seek help and healing. More than one being was furious with the fact that they could not pass through the doorway,” he says, sobering up, the impossibly sad expression returning to his face. 

_ “Odin?”  _ Steve hisses, his mind wheeling. Wasn’t Odin...the Allfather, or something? And in the myths, didn’t he have a son named—

Thor runs a hand through his cropped hair, taking a deep breath. “Those who were angry sought revenge on Odin for creating something their dark souls could not be apart of. When they could not enact it, they turned to the other worlds themselves. They waged their fury on them, battered doorways, fought to get through with the intent of destroying everything. Only one ever succeeded; one who had a grudge against Odin.”

There is a bitter twist to Thor’s mouth and it makes Steve’s heart ache. Steve has a sick feeling in his stomach; this is not a good story, there is maliciousness threaded through it, a thick smoke that betrays the evil that had been enacted on innocents. Nevertheless, he buckles up. He knows nothing good will be said next, and his blood prickles with dread. 

True to Steve’s hunch, Thor hangs his head, eyes appearing watery. “Hela was her name. She could not destroy Bucky’s world. She was powerful, but weakened from having destroyed another world before she got to his. From what I heard, Bucky defended those who had taken refuge in his world with all that he had. He and Hela fought in a vicious battle. She was eventually driven out with the help of some of the stronger refugees, but Bucky was already gravely injured.” Thor pauses, looking up again. He wears the expression of one who has seen too much, who has endured things worse than death could ever be. 

“What happened?” Steve whispers, almost regretting the words the moment they’re out. 

But Thor shakes his head. He seems overwhelmed; his hands are shaking, the right one clenching as though it aches to hold something. He is pale, too, jaw clenched. “Nothing good. I can’t—not today. I can’t tell you any more today,” he says, standing up and beginning to clear the table. 

“What? Thor—” Steve begins protesting. 

Thor shoots him a pleading look, shaking his head again. “I  _ can’t,”  _ he emphasises, walking away briskly. 

Steve sits at the table, at a loss. On one hand, he wants to know what happened, wants to be able to tell Bucky what happened. On the other, Thor is very clearly in distress, which— _ oh Gods.  _ He had talked about the wars like he’d lived them. And—knowing what Steve knows, about Thor not being human, about the terrible scars he bears, about the way he sits with a thousand-yard stare sometimes...Maybe he had. 

And—more than one world? There were others out there like Bucky, like his world. Steve tries to swallow past the lump in his throat; Hela had successfully destroyed one of those worlds. She had tried to do the same to Bucky. Steve presses the heels of his palms to his eyes and breathes out, nice and slow and  _ shaky.  _ He needs to research that—Hela, he knows her name. It’s one that makes his blood curdle, and he needs to know why. 

Steve shakes his head, blown away. He remembers reading a passage in a book of magical history he’d read in school once;  _ Every legend, every myth, is derived from either a true event or is, itself, true.  _

Thor. Steve shakes his head again, stands to clear some other tables and start getting the place cleaned up and ready to be shut for the day. Thor’s disappeared into the back, so Steve takes care of the remaining customers and deals with any last-minute ones. Ten minutes to closing, Thor comes out, looking drained. He gives Steve an apologetic look but doesn’t stop to explain; just walks out of the bakery, the bell ringing behind him. 

Steve shakes his head, feeling all sorts of confusion and compassion. He finishes up at the cafe in record time, turns the  _ Open  _ sign to  _ Closed,  _ and books it out of there, backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s got only one thing in his mind and his entire being is vibrating with the need to be with Bucky again. The need to be in the calm and peace that is his world. 

Before he slips through the rune-covered door, he stops in at a grocery store to get a few supplies. 


	7. Would You Prefer Ignorance?

Steve sets the heavy bag of flour down as the door closes slowly, like it’s reluctant or unsure. He looks around, trying to figure out where Bucky might be. Just as he’s about to heave the flour to Bucky’s hut, the man himself  _ lopes  _ towards Steve, emerging from the trees with a grin that might just split his face. 

“Steve!” Bucky cries, slowing down just enough to wrap Steve in a hug without bowling him over. 

Steve can’t help the happy laugh that overtakes him. He holds Bucky tight, breathing him in. He smells like the usual sweet violet, but of saltwater and lavender, too. His hair is wet and dripping down his back, onto Steve’s arms. Steve hums, utterly content right where he is. It feels warm and  _ right,  _ to be here with Bucky. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve murmurs, sighing into the skin of his bare chest. 

Bucky kisses the top of Steve’s head, letting out a pleased hum. “How was your day?” he asks, pulling back just enough so he can search Steve’s face. 

Steve feels like he’s floating on a cloud; the exhaustion of the day seeping out of him. He relaxes, putting aside everything he’s learned and the impossibility of it all, just for a moment. “Full,” he replies. “How was yours?” 

“Very good; I planted some more chamomile and tansy, and pruned the plum trees. The kettle is on, would you like some tea?” Bucky asks, stepping away, his hand finding Steve’s.

Steve presses a kiss to Bucky’s shoulder, a happy trill echoing in his mind at how easy the action is; how right it feels. “I’d love some. I brought you some flour, by the way,” he says shyly, gesturing to the huge bag sitting on the ground. 

Bucky blinks, his mouth falling open, his eyes shining with delight.  _ “Steve,”  _ he breathes. “Thank you!” and then he’s wrapping Steve up in his arms again and squeezing him tight, his happiness filling the air around them like sun-drowsy butterflies. 

Steve makes a small noise of surprise before he’s hugging back with just as much enthusiasm, his heart thudding his chest. He sighs against Bucky’s chest, laughing when the rib-crushing grip eases into something more calm and soft, content to just enjoy the feeling of Bucky warm and solid against him. Bucky hums, a hand trailing up Steve’s side before moving around to the small of his back. 

“I missed you today,” Bucky murmurs against Steve’s shoulder, where he’s tucked his face.

“Missed you, too,” Steve replies, his stomach curling up and dancing around in delight. 

Bucky smiles, pulling away. His eyes hooded from where he looks down at Steve. “Let’s go have some tea,” he says, picking up the bag of flour and holding Steve’s hand. 

They walk slowly to Bucky’s hut, in absolutely no rush. When they’re settled, kettle just beginning to whistle, herbs waiting in cups, Steve clears his throat. “I, uh, found out some things today,” he starts. 

Bucky takes the kettle from the stove, pouring hot water into cups. “What kind of things?” he prompts, handing Steve his tea. 

Steve takes it, relaxes as it warms his hands. “Things about...this place,” he murmurs, pausing to inhale the herb-scented steam. He glances at Bucky, who is watching him with a soft, curious expression on his face. “My friend, Thor…” and Steve proceeds to tell Bucky everything he had learned from Thor about Hela, about the other worlds, watching Bucky carefully for any sign that he should stop. 

When he’s done, Bucky sits in silence, staring at his own cup of tea, face blank. Steve waits patiently, knows it must be a lot to take in; he wonders if Bucky had known any of it, had known how he’d been created, had known that there were others like him. Slowly, Bucky brings his tea up and takes a sip, closing his eyes. 

When he sets his cup down he hums, clearly still processing. “Do you know why I can't remember? Why the door closed after?” he asks. 

Steve shakes his head, twisting the tea cup in his hands. “No. I think...Thor knows, but. He didn’t tell me.”

“Thor,” Bucky huffs out a breath, the name sounding like he’s said it before. 

Steve tilts his head to one side. “Do you know him?” he asks. It would make sense—the way Thor had talked of Bucky, it sounded like he’d met him once or twice. They are both centuries old. 

Bucky shakes his head, but he looks unsure. “There are—holes. In my mind _ ,”  _ he says it like he’s pulling teeth; hard and fast, wicked and agonising. “Sometimes I get flashes. Echoes. I think I know why—why people stopped coming, but. I’m not sure. I don’t even remember any of the wars, or fighting Hela, but it feels familiar.” He stares into his tea like it has the answers, looking haunted. 

Steve looks away, something like wire twisting in his chest, sharp and painful. The croak in Bucky’s voice echoes in his mind like a migraine. “Thor has answers, but, uh, he gave all he was willing today.”

Bucky sighs, looking out the window with shiny eyes. “Three days ago, I didn’t even actively remember there was anything outside of this world. Now you’re here and others know more about my life than I do and I was created by some  _ God  _ to be a safe place for people running from a  _ war? _ ” his breath hitches, voice breaking on the last word. 

Steve clenches his jaw, a sick feeling settling in his stomach. “Bucky—” but he stops. He doesn’t know what to say. Thing is, he couldn't even begin to imagine what Bucky’s feeling, what he's been through.  

Bucky shakes his head, stares down at his hands. “I was not created for violence,” he whispers, his voice almost surprised. “It changed something in me, I can feel it. Like—like a  _ shadow,  _ always there, always hovering. Waiting for me to give in to this—this  _ anger _ I have in me.” 

Steve wants to ask if Bucky remembers, despite him saying he doesn’t, but then a tear drops from one of Bucky’s eyes, splashing against the hardwood floor and settling there. They both stare at it, the air around them prickling with an aching sort of pain, something bone-deep and ages old. Bucky lets out a wet laugh, before pressing his lips together. 

Steve sets his tea down and shuffles closer, holding out his arms, silently offering whatever comfort he might be able to provide. Bucky looks up at him, his chin wobbling; just a fine tremor. It cleaves Steve in two. With a desperate sob, Bucky falls into Steve’s arms and curls up, fitting like they’re two halves of a whole. 

And Bucky cries. It’s like a wave, building and building before crashing to shore and dispersing, dragging itself back out to sea only to come back and do it all over again. Steve tries to hold him together, but Bucky feels like he will shake apart. Steve feels like crying, too, but the tears don’t come. Instead, he stares out over Bucky’s head and rocks him gently, wondering why bad things happen to good people. 

Eventually, as the steaming tea grows cold and the glowing silver moon peeks in through a window, Bucky’s sobbing, gasping, heaving tears slow to soft, exhausted sniffling. Steve waits for him to gather himself, drawing soothing circles on his back and breathing with him. Bucky shifts, making to sit up, and Steve helps him. 

Once upright, still close, still touching, Bucky wipes at his nose and scrubs at his face before peering at Steve through his eyelashes, his face downturned. Steve hums, running a hand up Bucky’s arm to the back of his neck, letting it rest there. He leans in, presses soft, tender kisses to the apples of Bucky’s cheeks, wiping away the hot tears with a thumb. 

Bucky shudders, his own hands coming to rest on Steve’s knees. “Thank you,” he whispers, voice but a hoarse croak. 

“Any time,” Steve murmurs, and it’s a promise;  _ I will hold you anytime you need me to, I will be strong when you cannot and I will be a comfort and source of love for you always.  _

Bucky lets out a breath, his shoulders dropping from where they had been tense, up by his shoulders. Silently, he lays back, stretching out on the sleeping mat, his eyes closed. He looks exhausted; bruise-like circles under his eyes, face pale and blotchy. He keeps physical contact with Steve, like it’s a lifeline; his hand finds Steve’s and holds it loosely. Steve can’t help but shift so he’s just a little closer. He presses his lips to Bucky’s palm. 

“Stay the night,” Bucky murmurs. “I need—” he pauses, before letting out a breath. “I need to not be  _ alone _ ,” he finishes quietly, voice unsure.

To not be alone; not again, not so soon with the memory so fresh. Steve’s heart is in his throat. “Of course, Buck,” he whispers.

And he does; he puts another log on the fire, moves their cups to the bench, settles down into the crook of Bucky’s arm. Lays against him, trails his fingers over his chest, watching the goosebumps come and go. Watches Bucky’s face relax and listens to his breathing even out. Sleep comes and takes Bucky in her arms, cradles him close and gifts him sweet, untroubled dreams. 

When it’s been long enough for Bucky to drift into a deep sleep, Steve carefully moves out of his arms, sitting up. Bucky frowns in his sleep, shifting, curling around something that’s not there anymore. He doesn’t wake up, but a lump forms in Steve’s throat. He takes his drawing pad and a pencil. Quietly stocks the fire with wood again. 

He draws Bucky in the dim firelight, taking the time to get each curve of his sleeping form just right. This time, every line seems to just effortlessly appear on the paper. By the time Steve’s adding the very last details, he is calm and content. The shadows do not make an appearance. He tucks the finished drawing away in his bag and carefully lays back down beside Bucky. 

Bucky hums sleepily, simply shifting, fitting himself to Steve and tucking his face into the curve between Steve’s shoulder and neck. His breath tickles Steve’s skin, but it’s warm and soon Steve finds himself drifting off into a dreamless sleep. 


	8. Whales Song of Tranquility

Morning is slow, languid and warm. Bucky is wrapped in the feeling of softness; dawn sunlight, golden and sleepy, is trickling in through the windows, dancing slow and steady across the floorboards. He wakes with a smile on his face, his body loose and relaxed as he rolls his head to watch the sun creep over the horizon with half-lidded eyes. 

Steve is still sleeping, hair in fantastic disarray, a little bit of drool pooled at the edge of his mouth. His eyelashes cast shadows over his cheekbones like feathers. His cheeks are flushed from the morning warmth and he...he looks like an angel. Bucky can’t look away. 

He can barely process last night. He’d felt so safe, so at ease to breakdown in front of Steve, to let Steve take care of him. He can hardly believe the kindness Steve had given him, the gentle way he had held Bucky, letting him fall apart in his arms. He counts his blessings and he cradles them against his chest, grateful and overwhelmed. 

He thinks about the surge of half-memory he’d experienced. He knows the answers are there, somewhere deep in his mind, behind some murky wall of bone-aching magic. He shudders at the thought, pushes it away. He cannot think about this today; he  _ can’t.  _ He can’t think about the darkness that writhes in him, grown from the act of violence that had been unleashed upon his world. He’d been made by some God to be pure and kind, hadn’t he? Yet he’d been corrupted—just like Eve had in the Garden of Eden. 

He shudders, pushing it all away. He shifts carefully, extracting himself from Steve, who simply makes an endearing disgruntled sound and huffs, apparently determined to sleep more. Bucky realises he’s smiling when his cheeks start to hurt. He shakes himself, moves over to the fireplace. There are still embers glowing, which means Steve must have put more wood on over the night.

He’s not sure why that’s the thought to send him careening over the edge, but as Bucky falls down into a ocean of love—all sweet-scented seafoam and rainbow-coloured light fractals—he feels like his chest is so full that it might burst. He has to take a moment, braced against the wood basket, to embrace the feeling. He lets it wash over him so he can fully process it. 

It’s a lot, this feeling. He’s had it before; more than once. He’s been so deeply, purely in love before it’d had his head spinning for weeks. He’s been in wild, all-consuming love that he’d been panting with it, chasing it. He’d been in tentative, sweet love that had reduced him to a shy, blushing mess. 

This time it feels like the morning; peaceful, languid. Warm and golden. He breathes out, presses his hand against his chest. He’s always been quick to love, quick to get attached. It’s never bitten him before, never been a bad thing; even if it wasn’t returned, he learned from it, was grateful for the experience. 

As he casts a look at Steve’s sleeping form, he can’t help but sigh; he’s hit with a wave of the feeling all over again. He sits with it a moment, the act of lighting the fire put on hold. He’s lucky. He’s so unbelievably lucky to have the chance to know Steve, to love him and spend time with him. He has no need to hope that Steve feels the same; he just knows that Steve, kind, compassionate and fierce Steve, makes Bucky happy. So happy. 

It’s all that’s important right now, all Bucky needs. He hums, breathes deep and slow to calm his over-excited heart. He turns to the fire, dopey smile on his face, and sets about lighting it to boil some water for tea. 

By the time Steve wakes, there is chamomile, elderflower and thyme brewing in their cups and Bucky is sitting just outside the door, leaning on the frame and watching the last of the sunrise. He’s aware of Steve rolling over and stretching, aware of him waiting to wake up properly before he sits up. 

Steve brings a blanket with him as he comes outside to sit with Bucky, settling down just close enough for their shoulders to be touching. Without speaking, Bucky tilts his head so it rests on top of Steve’s. He takes his hand, intertwining their fingers. Steve sighs, relaxing into him. 

Bucky offers him a cup of tea, which Steve, still sleepy and rumpled, takes with a small moan of appreciation. “Do you have work, today?” Bucky asks quietly, determined to not disturb the tranquility of the morning. 

Steve shakes his head, eyes closed, breathing in the steam from the tea. “Tomorrow,” he murmurs, taking a sip and humming, a smile curling at his lips. 

Bucky can’t tear his eyes away. “We could go swimming, then,” he suggests; there’s not much to do in the gardens that can’t wait till tomorrow. 

“Mmmm…” Steve looks up from his tea, eyes glittering. “That sounds good. What’s in the tea?” 

Bucky shifts, hit by the sudden urge to trace a thumb over Steve’s lips. “Chamomile, thyme and elderflower.”

“Do they have medicinal properties?” Steve murmurs, leaning into Bucky just that little bit more. 

Bucky can feel himself blushing, and he keeps his eyes firmly on the sun, which is now up and laughing, spreading joy and life across the world. 

“Elderflower helps with colds and headaches, but I put it in this morning because it’s soothing. Same for the chamomile; though that can help with digestion and sleeplessness. Thyme is invigorating; it’s great, first in the morning. It wakes you up nice and slow and sets you up for the day,” he says, decades of learning from the plants spilling off his tongue. 

When Bucky looks down at Steve, who is quiet for a time, he finds him looking up at him through his eyelashes with a look that sets Bucky’s heart racing. The look is soft, warm and full of wonder. In it is everything Bucky is feeling, reflected right back at him. He lets out a low breath, searching Steve’s eyes, but only finds love there.

Steve smiles, knows that Bucky can read him. Everything is left unvoiced, but not unsaid. 

They take their time to finish their tea, and when they’re done, they wander to the sea, hands swinging between them. They shed the clothes they had slept in, eyes barely glancing over the others body. The sea as they dive in is warm and it sweeps them up, rocking them, caressing them. They swim, diving beneath the waves, laughing, splashing each other and leaping on each other.

Steve’s got his arms around Bucky’s shoulders, clinging to his back and Bucky is holding him close when he gets an idea. “Do you trust me?” Bucky asks, breathless. 

“With all that I am,” Steve replies, voice strong and sure. 

Bucky’s heart leaps in his chest, then he is giving Steve a cheeky grin and pulling them both under water. Steve lets out a delighted shriek of surprise before the noise morphs into the sound of bubbles under water. Bucky moves under the water, spinning them around so he’s hovering above Steve, grinning down at him through the clear seawater. 

Steve stares up at him, blue eyes wide, but calm. Bucky moves his face close, hair floating around his head and face. He presses a kiss to Steve’s lips, and Steve smiles into it, a laugh vibrating in the water around them. Bucky smiles too, unable to hold the kiss for too long before he’s pulling them both back to the surface.

 

("Underwater Kisses" by NeutralChaos)

 

Steve laughs, loud and happy. It makes Bucky’s heart swell nine times, makes him feel like he is made of rose petals. Steve maneuvers them from their standing position to laying back in the saltwater, floating on their backs and holding each other like otters.

Bucky hums, utterly content. Then he has a thought. “There are whales in the bay, sometimes,” he murmurs, voice so quiet he’s not sure Steve hears it. 

But Steve looks at him and his face is alight with surprise. “How?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. They’ve just always been there,” Bucky hums, excitement taking over as he floats there, weightless, distorted sunlight dancing across his skin. 

Steve splutters, apparently amused at the notion. “How big  _ is  _ this place?”

Bucky laughs, summer-sweet, then tugs him close, spinning them in the water, crouching so just their shoulders and heads break the surface. “The land is small. The ocean? Who knows.” Then, looking around them at the endless expanse of this emerald ocean, he closes his eyes and hopes the whales will come say hello.

When he opens his eyes again, Steve is looking up at him, his eyes soft. Bucky smiles, bringing up a hand to cup Steve’s cheek, leaning in and giving him a chaste kiss. When he draws back, Steve’s eyes are closed, his lips curled in a gentle smile. 

And then there is movement in the water out in the bay; something unmistakably huge. Bucky watches Steve’s eyes fly open in brief panic that quickly melts into awe as he spots the whales drifting lazily closer, breaching the surface as they come. They are similar to Earth’s humpback whales, Bucky’s been told, apart from the topaz and sunset-orange colour that glides over their flesh whenever they move. 

The whales make low keening noises in greeting, coming right close until Bucky is able to look into the creatures’ eyes. He holds onto Steve, arms wrapped around him, glancing at him to check he’s okay. Steve is shaking his head in disbelief, but then he reaches out his free hand and places it on Bucky’s chest, taking comfort in his presence. 

Bucky smiles at the peace that comes over Steve’s face; an expression so calm and full of gentleness that it melts Bucky’s heart. The whales let out high-pitched noises of delight, vibrating the water around them, before beginning to drift back out to deeper waters. Just as the whales are leaving, one half-turns to look at them, something mournful and pleading in its eye. Bucky shivers, confused, but the moment passes as the whales drift away. Steve and Bucky watch them go, something changed between them, to have shared the moment. 

As the whales disappear again from sight, Bucky looks to Steve, who looks away, eyes still wide. Bucky glances at the shore in question, and Steve nods. They begin to wade out of the water, still holding onto each other. The surrealness of the moment is getting to Bucky’s head; he can’t help but feel incredibly overwhelmed. Sure, he’s seen the whales before, but he’d never shared them with someone so... _ Important.  _ Someone to dear to him. 

They reach the shore and stand on shaky legs, getting used to land again. 

“Thank you,” Steve murmurs. 

“You’re welcome,” Bucky hums, lets the question shine in his eyes as Steve looks up at him. Bucky smiles, feeling hopeful. “Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” he whispers, before leaning in just slow enough for Steve to stop him. 

Steve gasps, just a little intake of breath, before closing the gap. He seems surprised and delighted; Bucky can almost feel it thrumming though him. Bucky smiles against his lips at that knowledge, and it’s incredible, sends lightning buzzing through him. Steve leans up on his toes a little to get a better angle, reaches up with one hand to thread his fingers through the base of Bucky’s hair. Bucky whines, not shy in this, deepening the kiss, hands resting at Steve’s hips. 

It feels like an electric charge has started up at the base of Bucky’s spine and he shudders, matching Steve’s eagerness. The scent of sweet violet that simply  _ is  _ Bucky wraps itself around Steve like a blanket. Bucky wonders if Steve can smell it, if it’s enveloping his senses and filling him up. Bucky’s dizzy with it, whimpering a little as Steve tugs on his hair. 

Bucky pulls back slowly, lays eyes on the dopey look Steve has on his face and  _ giggles _ . Steve grins at him, hand coming around to cup Bucky’s cheek. “You’re amazing,” he murmurs.

“And you’re so beautiful, Steve,” Bucky whispers, their faces still close enough for him to press their foreheads together. 

The sun is getting low in the sky and it casts a warm, rose-gold glow over Bucky’s world. Steve sighs, apparently content right where he is. Bucky breathes Steve in, one of his hands now under Steve’s shirt, pressing against the skin there. Steve shivers; Bucky runs hotter than him, and he’s sure is feels almost feverish. 

“I feel like I could stay here forever,” Steve admits, voice low like it’s a secret he doesn’t want out. 

Bucky hums, heart aching. Steve words settle somewhere deep inside him, kindling to a slow-burning fire, warming him. “You are welcome here as long as you like,” he says. 

“I have work tomorrow,” Steve mutters, sounding like he’s irritated about it. 

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “Then I will see you when you come back.” He promises, straightening up, but his hands find Steve’s and he holds them, thumbs moving in small circles. 

Steve sighs, but a smile twitches at the edges of his lips. “Thank you, Bucky. For all of this.” 

“No, thank you. You’ve given me...more than you know,” Bucky says with a briefly bitter smile, before it melts back into one of bliss and calm. Steve hums, taking one hand back to brush a stray strand of hair back behind Bucky’s ear. Steve’s eyes glitter in the evening light as Bucky watches him. 

“I should head back,” Steve says, regret in his tone. 

Bucky turns to him, giving him a reassuring smile. “I’ll see you when you get back. You have work tomorrow?” 

Steve nods. “Yeah, but I can come and see you afterwards. Although, my roommate might want me to spend time with her,” he says, sounding regretful. “I miss her, too.”

“Don’t worry, Steve. I’ll be waiting here. We don’t need to spend every day together,” Bucky laughs, even though he would love to; they both have other responsibilities. Although...maybe he could go visit Steve, one day. 

Steve sighs, content smile returning to his face. “Then I’ll see you when I see you,’ he murmurs. 

“One more cup of tea before you go?” Bucky suggests. 

Steve grins at him, stepping away, keeping their hands joined. “I’d love some.” 

So they head back and make tea; bergamot, nettle and wormwood, fresh from the garden. They sip it while they sit in the grass outside the hut. Bucky sits in the v of Steve’s legs, leaning against his chest and talking about the properties of the herbs, moving on to talk about the garden plan for the coming months. Steve sips his tea and listens. The smile on his face is pretty constant now. Both their cheeks hurt. 

When they’re done, Bucky walks Steve to the door. The deer are milling around the pond, comfortable again now that they’re used to Steve. They watch, curious, as Bucky and Steve embrace, breathing each other in.

“Will you ask your friend more about what he knows?” Bucky murmurs, something in his chest twisting. He hates to break the moment, but the knowledge that someone out there has answers hovers over him like—well, like the shadows that haunt him. 

“Of course,” Steve promises.

When the door shuts behind him, Bucky watches it for a moment before turning and wandering back to the gardens, grinning to himself. It’s a been a good day. One of the best. 

It’s just. He can’t shake the feeling that everything is coming to a head, and that it won't be pretty. As he walks through the orchards, picking up windfall, something presses at the back of his mind. It sounds like it’s whispering  _ ‘remember, remember, remember what you forgot. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Links to Neutralchaos' art posts; please go check 'em out! They're [here on twitter](https://mobile.twitter.com/Neutralchaos1/status/1099077879055343616?s=19) and [here on tumblr!!](http://chaosdraws.tumblr.com/post/183010095016/he-presses-a-kiss-to-steves-lips-and-steve)


	9. What Glimmers on the Horizon?

Nat is waiting up for him when he gets home and Clint is over, playing video games in the lounge. Steve grimaces at the look on Nat’s face, knows he worried her. He sets his bag down at the door, runs a hand through his hair. Sand falls out onto his shirt, which is wrinkled and slightly stained from where it’d been sitting on the beach for hours. 

Nat raises an eyebrow in question, her mouth a thin line. She looks tired and Steve feels immediately guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says, sitting down at the table with her. 

She shakes her head, closing her eyes briefly. “You don’t need to tell me when you’re going somewhere, I’m just being—”

“A good friend,” Steve cuts her off. “You were worried. I should have texted. So I’m sorry.”

Nat gives him a grateful look, her shoulders slumping. “I preferred it when you were indifferent to magic,” she mutters. “Didn’t go running off into different worlds every day—one that was  _ shut for a hundred years.”  _

Steve huffs out an exhausted laugh, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m a reckless idiot, no need to spell it out,” he protests. Then he sobers again, his mind running over the events of the last few days. 

“I think I might really like this guy, Nat,” he whispers. 

“You’re glowing,” Nat shrugs. “I could tell. I know it’s not the looming art deadlines making you look this happy.

Steve flushes, looking away. “That obvious, huh?” He chooses to ignore the art comment. He was  _ getting  _ there, okay? There were pieces  _ happening. _

Nat just smiles at him in a way that makes him blush even harder. “He know about you being ace?”

_ “Nat,”  _ Steve splutters. When she raises an eyebrow at him, he sighs. “We’ve not exactly talked about sex, okay? It hasn’t come up.”

She tilts her head a little to the left, assessing him. “I’m just saying, don’t hesitate to let me know if he turns out to be an asshole about those kinds of things.”

Steve bites at his lip, his heart thudding uncomfortably. It’s not—he doesn’t think it’ll be a problem. It’s just that he and Nat both know that it has been in the past. Enough that he understands that she’s wary. 

“I don’t think he’s the kind of guy who really would be bothered about it,” he says quietly. It feels like the truth. 

Nat’s smile turns soft. “No,” she says quietly. “No, I don’t think he is.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at her, wondering how sure she could be when she hasn’t even met him, and drags a hand down his face, unable to hide the smile. “I brought you some chamomile for tea,” he says, changing the subject. 

Nat beams at him, seems to accept that they’re now very much not talking about how infatuated Steve is with Bucky. They go on to talk about mundane things, Clint eventually realising Steve’s returned and coming to the table to join them. Late afternoon slips quickly into late evening and they put together a quick dinner. When they’re done eating, Steve excuses himself and slips into bed, his whole body feeling like a limp noodle. 

Tomorrow, he’s going to be asking Thor if he’s ready to share more information. The thought makes him feel guilty, but he knows that if Thor is able, he will gladly help. And Bucky deserves to know what happened to him—whatever it was that made him forget and shut the doors to his world, whatever has the unnatural darkness hovering over him. 

He falls asleep with the memory of Bucky’s lips on his, and he dreams only of light refracting on golden-green waters. 

______________

Steve wakes up late, dragging himself out of bed when he sees the time. He dresses quickly, hunting down clean clothes and washing his face before texting a  _ ‘goodbye see you tomorrow’  _ to Nat, who is apparently sleeping through her day off. That or she’s slipped out of the apartment without him hearing and is off running some secret errand or another.  __

Steve spends the walk to work going over the last conversation with Thor in his head; how he’d found out that, for one, Norse Gods were real and, two, a Norse Goddess had broken into Bucky’s world with the intent of destroying it; therefore engaging in battle with Bucky himself. Steve shakes his head as he walks, mouth twisting with distaste. 

Bucky remembers none of it; that was the kicker. He gets flashes, but his mind is void of the memories for reasons he doesn’t know. This is the part that Steve is most wary of finding out the answer to; just thinking about it makes him sick to his stomach. He  _ knows  _ that the answers they’re seeking hold nothing but ugly truths, coiled up like bloodied cobras ready to strike. 

They still don’t know why the door had closed, or what had happened during the battle with Hela. Steve intends to ask Thor about it today. 

When he gets to work, he finds a steaming cup of strong coffee waiting on the counter for him, which is a good sign. Thor must not harbour any hard feelings for what had happened when Steve had asked him about Bucky’s world. The knowledge takes a weight off of Steve’s shoulders, and he drops his backpack with haste. He’s cradling the coffee, perfect temperature, sipping it happily, when Thor comes out of the kitchen, flour-covered towel thrown over one shoulder. 

He looks tired, Steve notices first. Upon further inspection, there’s a sparkle in Thor’s good eye that makes Steve smile. “Mornin’,” Steve says, tipping the coffee cup in his direction. 

Thor returns his smile with a genuine one that is nevertheless tinged with resignation. “Morning, Steve. How are you?” he asks. 

Steve lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. “Alright,” he admitted. Thor lifts an eyebrow in question and Steve elaborates. “ I told Bucky what you told me. He had a, uh, well. He didn’t take it well at first. But he’s okay, too. Asked me to, uh, ask you what else you knew.”

Thor smiles a little wider now, shaking his head gently, side-to-side. He reaches up to grab the towel, wipes his dough-covered hands with it. “You’ll get your answers. I just—it’s rough, digging up old memories. They’re not always good. I can’t imagine what it would be to relive them as they’re told to you.” 

Steve’s mouth pulls down unhappily. “Thor, if it’s too much, don’t push yourself, yeah?” he pauses, then allows a little mirth into his tone. “You’re the best baker in all of Brooklyn. Can’t afford to have a guy like you holding a grudge against me.” 

Thor laughs, low and real, before scraping a hand through his hair. “Alright, Steve. Only if you take your own advice?” he says, and, before Steve can splutter a response, Thor turns and walks back into the kitchen, still shaking his head. 

Steve sighs, finishing his coffee. Time to get to work. And, Gods, didn’t that make his head spin? He’s just been talking to a legendary old Norse God about his centuries-old, magic not-human...Well, whatever he and Bucky are to each other. It feels like something he couldn’t label if he tried. And now he has to serve customers coffee until two in the afternoon. 

He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, and gets to it. 

It’s not an overly busy day, but he’s still pleasantly distracted from everything in his head by the familiar work. It centres him, reminds him that although his world has been turned upside down, everything else remains the same. Not everything has changed, not everything is all strange and impossible. 

By the time midday rolls by and the lunch rush disperses, Steve’s almost vibrating out of his skin. He tidies up the tables, cleans the espresso machine and begins getting ready to close the cafe when the last remaining customers are ready to leave. He’s sweeping behind the counter when the bell above the door sings out, announcing another arrival. 

He turns, words of apology for closing soon already in his mouth, but they get washed away as he locks eyes with—with  _ Bucky.  _ Bucky’s here? Steve blinks in surprise—Bucky is dressed in pants and a shirt, his hair tied back in a bun, although is feet are still bare. He looks unsure and tired, slightly bewildered too. 

“Bucky?” Steve questions as the man walks up to the counter, his face lighting up with relief when he sees Steve. “Are you okay?” he asks, reaching out a hand almost on impulse. 

Bucky gives him a reassuring smile, takes his hand and squeezes it. Steve’s left feeling calmer at the touch and he huffs out a breath. “I’m fine, Steve. I’ve been thinking about coming back out here now the door’s open, and I wanted to see you,” he explains. 

“But—the door…” Steve trails off, leaving the query hanging awkwardly in the air between them. 

Bucky shrugs, but he’s not unaffected; he seems worried. “I don’t think it will shut me out. Doesn’t feel like it.” He sounds surer than he looks.

Steve breathes out, chooses to focus instead on the fact that Bucky is  _ here.  _ He gives a little laugh, still shocked, and Bucky grins up at him. “How did you find me?” Steve asks him. 

Bucky flushes, ducking his head and looking at the floor with a sheepish smile. “I may have checked a lot of bakeries,” he admits.

Steve laughs, low and genuine. “We’re just about to close up for the day, and then I was going to talk to Thor. Did you want to join us?” he asks, reaching out to tuck a loose bit of hair behind Bucky’s ear. 

Bucky leans into the touch, his smile soft and warm. “Yeah, I do. Might as well meet the guy who knows my past better than I do,” he says dryly. 

“Are you going to be okay?” Steve wonders. 

Bucky lifts one shoulder in a shrug, tilts his head to one side. “I lived it,” is all he says, but his quiet voice betrays a quiver of nervousness. 

Steve hums, squeezes his hand once more before letting go. Bucky steps away from the counter and goes to choose a table to wait at while Steve and Thor finish up the day. It takes just under twenty minutes, but Steve is practically vibrating out of his skin by the end of it. Bucky sits silently the whole time, staring out the window with a thoughtful look on his face. 

He doesn’t look so out of place here on Earth as Steve thought he would have. He sits in his chair with his legs sprawled out, his arms folded across his chest. If it weren’t for the bare feet, strangely angular face and glinting silver eyes, Steve would think he was just another man getting an afternoon coffee. 

The thought twists deep in Steve’s gut; he imagines Bucky weaving like thread into his life, twining with everything else seamlessly. If Bucky were a regular human, Steve thinks it could happen easily. As it is...Steve shakes his head, clearing his mind. They’ve known each other how many days? And he’s already thinking long-term. 

He’s broken from his thoughts when Bucky looks up and finds his gaze across the cafe. He lifts an eyebrow, that gentle smile on his face rendering Steve powerless to stop the grin that glides across his own expression. He clears his head with a deep breath and hangs up his apron, walking over to Bucky and pulling up a chair beside him. 

“Thor won’t be too long,” he says, taking Bucky’s hand in his without thinking about it. It feels like such a natural thing for them to be holding hands now. 

Even as he says it, Thor is wandering out of the kitchen, having cleaned the place up for tomorrow. His face has the back of Steve’s neck pricking and, when Bucky squeezes his hand tight, he clenches his teeth. Whatever is going to be said will not be a happy story. 

“Thor,” Bucky greets, sitting up in his seat a little, eyes wider than normal. He sounds surprised, like maybe he recognises the guy. 

Steve looks away from him to glean Thor’s reaction. The man sits down, a wry smile on his face. “Bet I look a little different from when you last saw me, huh?” is all he says. 

Bucky huffs out a breath, looking caught off-guard. “Your hair’s gone,” he comments, then gestures to his face, eyes locked on the scar that covers Thor’s milky eye. 

Thor dips his head, sighing. “A lot can happen in one hundred years.”

Bucky grunts, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “I suppose. I’ve been a little cut off from everything, haven’t noticed it changing.” 

Steve looks at him in surprise, but notes the twitch of Bucky’s lips and relaxes; he was making a joke. 

Thor laughs, shaking his head. “I suppose you have. But the door’s open again. I wonder why that happened?” 

“I was hoping you’d have answers. You seem to know the story,” Bucky replies, sitting up in his chair. 

Thor’s face becomes darker, his eyes flickering, focused on something far away. The rapid change of mood makes Steve shiver. Bucky squeezes his hand again, and when Steve looks at him, his expression is calm. Steve relaxes, leans back in his chair and tells himself that he’s here as moral support for Bucky. The story that Thor is going to tell is Bucky’s  _ history;  _ one he doesn’t remember. He can’t be freaking out on him now. 

Thor levels Bucky with a look of thinly-veiled worry. “You have a right to know it,” he says, as though he’s convincing himself. 

Bucky nods, seeming by all appearances ready to hear his past told to him. Thor’s gaze flickers over to Steve and hovers there. Something twists on his face, like he’s unsure suddenly, but it passes. Steve rubs a thumb over the top of Bucky’s hand and he shoots him a grateful look. And then Thor is drawing himself up, as though readying himself for battle. Perhaps, in some way, he is. 

“I told you of Hela, of the battle you fought with her,” Thor begins, words directed at Bucky. “The wounds you suffered were grievous. You bear no outward scars from the event, for you were created a healer, so you healed. But Odin did not account for your mind being injured when he made you. I am told you lay unmoving for weeks. Some thought you dead; others thought you cursed. In the end, it was neither.”

Bucky is stone-still, taking all of this in with an expressionless face. The only reaction he’s having is the increasingly strong grip he keeps on Steve’s hand. Steve grits his teeth and watches Thor’s face, concentrates on both listening and keeping an eye on Bucky for any indication they should stop. 

Thor clears his throat, closes his eyes for a moment. “It was you that closed the door,” he says. Bucky makes a pained sound of disbelief beside Steve, but Thor continues. “Your mind was damaged; you forgot  _ everything _ . Who you were, what had happened. To this day I am not sure what ingrained instinct had you working such a feat, but you shut the door. Blocked everyone out.” 

Bucky leans forwards, and when Steve looks at him he sees that he is pale; his eyes glistening. “Why would I do that? _ ”  _ he wonders, voice shaking. “I would never do that!”

Thor shakes his head. “It is true. We feared what would happen to you and your world, but Odin was dead and many of us were either still fighting or dead, too. We let you be.”

“But—but  _ why?”  _ Bucky demands, bewildered. Steve’s heart lurches in his chest, hurting for him. 

Thor blinks, looking down at his hands, a small crease between his eyebrows. “I’m not sure. Perhaps it was to let yourself heal? Maybe you remembered in some way Hela’s act of war upon you and your world, so you shut it from everyone.”

Bucky sits back again, shaking his head. “But I didn’t heal. I still can’t remember,” he says, voice quiet and unsure. 

Thor must catch it, too, because he raises an eyebrow and look Bucky in the eye. “Are you sure about that?” he asks. 

Bucky curls his lip, looking the most inhuman Steve’s ever seen him. It sends a jolt of awe through him, that he is sitting with these two beings. The thought passes through his mind only once, and then he is aching for his friends who have seen so much horror. 

Bucky’s shaking his head, back and forth, his jaw clenched. “I wouldn’t—” but he cuts himself off with a heaving sob. Steve makes an aborted movement towards him, his hand hovering in the air. What can he do?

Thor stands, running a hand down his face. 

“I’m sorry,” is all he says, and then he’s turning and leaving and Bucky is at Steve’s side,  _ quivering _ . 

Steve scoots closer to him, wraps his arms around him, beyond desperate relief flooding him when Bucky hugs him back tightly.

“Is there anything I can do?” Steve asks, voice choked.  

Bucky sobs a laugh. “I want to go  _ home _ ,” he whispers. 

Steve’s heart twists and a lump rises in his throat. Because Gods.  _ Gods,  _ how is any of this fair? “Yeah, Buck. Let's get you home,” he murmurs. 

Steve grabs his bag and locks up the cafe, intensely aware of Bucky the whole time. Thor gives them an apologetic, tired look and heads home himself, his shoulders hunched. By the time Steve’s finished, Bucky seems to have calmed down. It’s almost scary, the bland expression he wears. His eyes betray a coming storm, though, and Steve shivers at the sight. 

They swing their clasped hands between them as they walk home, Bucky remaining silent the entire time. He keeps looking around them, taking Brooklyn in and Steve’s hit with the realisation that Bucky hasn’t been out of his world in one hundred years; everything must be so different. And then he thinks of the possible reason  _ why  _ he hasn’t seen the changes, and he swallows past a sudden lump in his throat. 

He doesn’t bring it up, content to walk with Bucky to the door in silence. They’re not walking fast, but Steve feels as though they’re in a hurry. There’s a boiling hot feeling of discontent coming off of Bucky that prickles in the air around them. Then they’re at the doorway and they’re walking through it, breathing twin sighs of relief as it swings shut behind them.

The deer are gathered near the pond, some drinking, some watching. They appear as though they’re waiting for them, eyes narrowed like they’re judging them for being gone. Bucky swallows audibly and relaxes—Steve remembers him saying that he was connected to the world and being away from it was like leaving your soul behind. 

Steve lets out a breath and turns to him, hands hovering, ready to pull Bucky into a hug if that’s what he wants. It’s  _ nearly _ a surprise when Bucky takes the offer eagerly, letting himself be wrapped up in warmth and love. Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? Steve shakes with the realisation; so soon, so fast, but so true. He’s so in love. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Bucky whispers, voice wrecked with tears. 

Steve sucks in a breath, feeling like he’s been sucker-punched. He smooths a hand down Bucky’s hair, running his fingers through it. “You keep going,” he murmurs. “You wake up tomorrow and you get covered in dirt and sweat and plant some veggies, dry some herbs, then wash it all off in the ocean.”

Bucky shivers, burying his face in Steve’s shoulder, squeezing him tighter. “Will you be here?” he asks, so quiet Steve has to strain to hear it. 

“I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Steve promises with such certainty that he has to pause. He shelves the thought to think about later; a commitment like that could have him turning his entire life on its head, but...it’s not like it hasn’t already. 

Bucky sighs, pressing a kiss to Steve’s neck, his chin, his lips. He stares into Steve’s eyes, gives him a watery smile. “Will you stay again?” he asks. 

Steve nods and rolls onto the tips of his toes to press his forehead to Bucky’s. They breathe each other in, taking a moment to calm down from Thor’s story. Then they walk to Bucky’s hut. The fire is out, but Bucky gets it going quickly, showing Steve how. The water is put on to boil when the fire is hot enough, herbs ready and waiting in their cups. 

Bucky lays down on the sleeping mat and Steve drapes himself over him, cocooning him as much as he can. Bucky murmurs something about being exhausted and as Steve watches, his eyes flutter shut and stay closed. His face goes slack and his breathing evens out. Steve studies him, makes sure he’s really asleep. 

He doesn’t have the heart to move, so Steve simply lays his head down on Bucky’s chest and closes his eyes. Taking a deep breath, Steve tries to push away the feeling of looming unbalance that hangs in the air like smog. 

The more he thinks about it, the more exhausted Steve himself feels. He lets out a sigh and studies the roaring fire. The steady pulse of the flames lulls him into a trance and, slowly, he feels sleep brushing her hand over his eyelids. He lets them close, welcomes the dreamless sleep that follows, despite the vice around his chest that whispers of darker things to come.  


	10. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(

At first, Steve thinks it’s the kettle whistling that wakes him. As he orients himself he finds that it’s movement—Bucky, thrashing underneath him. Steve near jumps away; as it is, he kneels beside Bucky, sleep-addled brain struggling to catch up with the situation. Bucky is...he looks like he’s wrought with terror. 

Bucky’s hair is damp with sweat, his skin is glistening with it. He looks clammy, pale and his eyes fly back and forth behind his eyelids. His hands are clenched into fists and his mouth is screwed up in a grimace. His eyebrows are pulled together in a frown, his throat working, his chest heaving. He keeps twitching, rocks this way and that, lashing out every now and then. Desperate whimpers are coming from him; short, gasping noises. There are tears at the corners of his eyes. 

Now fully awake, Steve jolts into motion—he places a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and says his name once. Twice. A third time, with no result. Bucky reacts to the touch, though, flinches away from it so hard that Steve tears his hand away like it’s been burned. 

_ “Bucky,”  _ Steve begs one more time, at a loss of what to do, not knowing what is happening. 

Bucky lets out a low, awful noise, a deep whine in the back of his throat like he’s in pain. Steve tries touch again, shakes Bucky gently, and with a startled gasp Bucky  _ snaps  _ out of his nightmare, flying into a sitting position, eyes wild and glazed. He’s shaking; afraid. Steve jerks back, eyes wide, surprised at the suddenness of the movement. 

As soon as he’s over the shock, though, he’s moving back into Bucky’s space, reaching out a tentative hand. Bucky whips around to look at him, eyes darting from Steve’s face to his hand and back again. He is tense; every muscle pulled tight like he’s ready to act on either fight or flight. 

“Bucky,” Steve says softly, pleading. 

At that, Bucky slumps, eyebrows pulling together in confusion, his lips turned down in dismay. His face is marred with leftover agony that leaves Steve’s heart hurting. Then Bucky frowns and Steve can barely handle the new expression; it’s like Bucky doesn’t recognise him, like he’s stuck in some past memory where Steve doesn’t exist. 

Then, tilting his head to one side, Bucky’s eyes glaze over and his face clears. All that’s left is blankness and Steve has never felt fear like this before. He doesn’t know what to  _ do.  _ “Bucky,” he says again, barely a breath. 

Bucky’s eyes snap back into focus and, in a voice that sounds lost, timid and unsure, he says, “Steve?” 

Steve’s shoulders slump, but the movement echoes something far from relief. Bucky’s breathing is still rapid, shaky, his whole body quivering and his hair hanging around his face like he’s hiding. Steve reaches out tentatively, pushing the warning alarm bells in his head away, silencing them with a harsh;  _ he wouldn’t hurt me.  _

“Bucky, you’re safe. You’re in your hut. You were dreaming,” Steve explains, hoping to all and any gods that he’s getting through. 

The kettle is still whistling, the noise sharp and distressing. Bucky’s face twists in confusion, like everything Steve’s told him doesn’t make sense. “Dreaming…” he rasps. Steve’s heart leaps, but not with hope. No, Bucky sounds far too bitter for the word to mean something good. “No,” Bucky continues. “I was remembering.” And his eyes fix on something distant again. 

Steve feels like he is weighed down with concrete. He is at a loss; this he cannot understand. He has never had his memories stolen, has never had his home locked with him trapped inside it, not knowing why. He has never been told his history and left to remember it. He has never been given a reason to look as tortured as Bucky does now. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispers. “Bucky, you’re here now, can you look at me?” 

Bucky’s eyes are like steel as they refocus on Steve, the crease between his eyebrows deep. 

“I remember it all, Steve,” he says, his voice but a croak. A sob rattles through him and he slumps forwards, looking away. “Why would I do that?” 

Steve clenches his jaw, pushing down the fiery anger that swells up in him, like a gasoline explosion. It is of no use to him right now. He needs to remain calm, for Bucky’s sake. 

“I don’t know, Buck. You didn’t— _ don’t— _ deserve it. You were a casualty of war, and it’s not fair, but you’re safe now,” he tries. 

“That doesn’t erase what  _ happened,  _ oh  _ gods,  _ Steve, it hurt. I can’t believe I managed to make myself forget the feeling of  _ ice  _ and  _ steel  _ tearing my brain apart, my memories being torn out one by one _ ,”  _ Bucky chokes out, voice wrought with disbelief, with bewilderedness, with confusion. “I did that to myself.” 

Steve tries to swallow past the lump of poison that seems to have lodged itself in his throat, but he can’t. He tastes bitter revulsion, can’t begin to comprehend what is going through Bucky’s mind. He thinks of the kindness Bucky had shown him, the delighted laughter that Bucky had shared, the gentle tenderness he’d tended to his garden with. He looks at Bucky now, sees the distraught face he wears. It’s a stark comparison, almost blinding in its ugliness. 

_ But,  _ Steve thinks,  _ did I really expect Bucky to be happy all the time? To remain soft, for there to be nothing but simple contentedness in his past? Everyone has their demons.  _

“I’m full of confusion,” Bucky whispers, hanging his head. 

Steve shakes himself from his thoughts, scoots forwards. 

“Buck, I…” he trails off. What can he possibly say here? He racks his brain, and says the only thing that comes to mind. “I’m here, for whatever you need.” Support. It’s all he can offer. 

Bucky looks at him, eyes shiny, huffs out a wet laugh. Then he shakes his head and reaches out, takes Steve’s hand from where it had dropped uselessly to his lap. Bucky seems to study their clasped hands for a moment, before he brings Steve’s knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss to them. “I need to process. Make some tea, stay here if you still wish. I need to go for a walk.”

Then he stands, raking a hand through his hair. Steve stares up at him, feeling helpless. His body feels limp, worn out, like he’s run from some great beast. But he just sits there as Bucky walks out the door, leaning against the doorframe for a brief moment, as though it’s the only thing keeping him from falling down and never getting up again. 

Bucky disappears into the moonlit night, the scent of sweet violets trailing after him. Steve takes the kettle off the stove just as the first winds sweep through the gardens.  

__________

There’s an unbelievable tightness around his chest; like a vise, slowly closing, squeezing. He’s not entirely sure how or where to go from here; now that the truth is out and his brain has given him everything back like a dam breaking. He’s feeling everything that he had suppressed all at once. 

A choking sob forces its way from his throat as he stumbles along the path to the ocean. He needs to breathe, to  _ think,  _ but he doesn’t know if he can manage it. He is wrought with confusion, with despair. It’s like the dark and writhing monster deep inside him is thriving on his anguish, twisting up his insides, shredding them to pieces. 

The sand is cold as he falls to his knees in it, but he isn’t in his right mind—he doesn’t think about how it’s  _ never  _ been cold before. Instead he lets the tears come, lets them overwhelm him, lets them wash away the ugly feeling of his memories crawling over him like slime. 

He was wronged—he knows he was never created to be anything other than content and happy, to be anything other than a safe place for others, to never know the ugliness of the other worlds. He was never made to experience battle. It’s some great sin that he is feeling this. He throws his head back to glare at the sky, and bares his teeth. He places his hands on his stomach as though they can prevent the agony that threatens to spill over the sand like rotten blood. 

He is not human—he is not even a  _ he,  _ not really. It was the pronoun that sounded right when the first visitor used it. Bucky is a name he picked up somewhere on Earth in his ventures there. So for him to be feeling this hideous despair is almost like he has been cursed, been smote by his creator. 

But this is not the case. His creator is dead. Hela is but a disgusting memory remembered with a blood-red hue. His friends, those who visited him, are dead. But he is here. He is here on his knees glaring at the sky like it will answer his  _ “Why?” _

The only answer he gets is a spattering of rain. The drops join the trail of tears on their journey down his face. It’s a warning; he has hardly a moment to be shocked before the sky is breaking open and a torrent of rain cascades down on Bucky’s world like some great gesture of pity. He reads it as such, but he knows that this world is simply reflecting what he feels. 

He groans, bending over, his hands in fists at his stomach. His forehead presses to the sand and he  _ screams,  _ shrill and guttural, tearing its way from deep inside and exploding outwards. The scream tapers off into a broken sob and he is tilting sideways, laying on the beach now like he has been taken by the sea, thrown around and washed up. Some forgotten toy. 

He whimpers, cold under the rain. 

Wind screeches around him, tearing through trees and throwing branches to the ground in a tantrum. The rain keeps changing direction; hail joins the drops. The sea is raging, lifting up like some vicious beast before dropping back down, reflecting the inner turmoil that continues inside him. 

He hears a voice before he can lose himself to the elements. 

_ “Bucky?”  _

The sound barely makes it through the storm. But it does; and it causes the storm to calm just that little bit. Bucky groans, clutching at his skin, wishing to be warm once again, but. He doesn’t know  _ how.  _

There are hands on him then, but he can only show him the whites of his eyes. He is deep inside his mind, curled up there, begging for something to change. He cannot go on like this, mourning his past self. But right now it is all he knows. And then—the hands are warm, he realises. It breaks him out of his reverie. 

He looks up, sees Steve’s pale, terrified face. His hair is plastered to his head, his eyes wide, his skin soaked. It’s what makes him pause, the expression on Steve’s face. What right does Bucky have to put that look there? He feels an ache of regret, almost wishes Steve weren’t here so he could let the storm lay waste to this world and take him with it. 

But. Does he really want that?

No. No he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to be washed away with the storm, because of all the good in his life. Even with everything that has happened to him, everything he did to himself...It’s all in the past, isn’t it? It’s not here. Not now, despite it feeling otherwise. He can learn to heal from it. And he will. 

He takes a deep breath, breaks the surface of the murky depths of his memories. He reaches out, takes Steve’s hand in his, gives him a shaky smile. “Steve,” he croaks. 

Steve, dishevelled, distraught, gapes down at him, face a picture of intense concern. “Bucky, what—” he has to yell over the storm, even though it is dying down. 

But Bucky shakes his head, slumps back into the sand. He is exhausted, weak, trembling. Steve seems to get the message and simply lays down next to him, tucking himself into Bucky’s side. He’s freezing, Bucky notices, but he can’t bring himself to move. Not yet. His lungs rattle against his chest, but the rain is slowing to a soft pitter-patter. 

Despite wanting to be washed away forever, right out of existence just a moment ago, Bucky now feels a tentative calm. It’s like the storm has cleansed him of the unbearable weight he’d been unknowingly carrying. He feels lighter than he can remember. He sighs, his breath but a whisper, coming out in a cloud of mist in front of his face. 

He tightens his arms around Steve, holds him closer. The sea returns to its quiet rippling, the wind disappears all together. There is a glimmer of the golden moon peeking through the cold, dark clouds. Somewhere, one of the deer call out, and Bucky knows that they’re okay. 

When he speaks, his voice is wrecked from the screaming he hadn’t heard himself do. “I remember it all,” he croaks. 

Steve smoothes a hand over his hair, brushes it back from his forehead. “How does it feel?” he asks, overwhelming tears making the words come out thick and shaky.

Bucky’s lips curl into a snarl, but he chokes the rumbling noise back down. “Exhausting,” he manages to say. 

They are silent for a time, holding each other tight like they will fall apart if let go. Bucky is still shaking; he can sense the horrid darkness ever roiling inside him, begging to be let out. It’s grown there like rot, settled deep in his gut and his bones, turning him into some mocking echo of what he was before. 

“I made tea,” Steve whispers, breaking him from his thoughts.  

Something warm and beautiful blooms in Bucky’s chest, swallowing the screeching of the shadows that have taken root there, silencing them for now. “What kind?” he asks, voice just as soft it a bit raspy. 

“Lemongrass, Kawa Kawa and borage,” Steve sounds  _ bashful _ .

And, oh. There’s the love Bucky had felt just the morning before. Steve had remembered that those herbs were various mood-lifters, and had picked them out for Bucky. A calm smile brushes across his face, painted there by the compassionate artist before him. “Thank you.”

Steve just hums, reaches up to tuck some of Bucky’s drenched hair behind his ear. His fingers linger at Bucky’s temple like he can ease the turmoil in there. Bucky brings his own hand to take Steve’s, moving his fingers to press kisses to them. When Bucky looks down at him, Steve is smiling, soft and pleased. 

And Steve reaches up to wipe away the last of Bucky’s tears, presses kisses to the raw skin of his under eyes. Bucky wants to writhe; this kindness, this love, is all too much compared to the Hell he has just endured, and the Hell that still threatens him from inside. At the same time, it creates an anchor for him, allows him to think. 

He had forced his memories away, acted on despair and confusion to shut his door to all. To turn his back on what he was created for. He had suppressed the memories, kept them locked up like hyenas awaiting to wreck mayhem once freed. It’s a lot for him to process, that knowledge. He had gone so long thinking it was some spell that locked his memories up, that it was someone else who had shut the door. 

But it had been him all along. 

He heaves a deep, shuddering breath and lets it out like he’s begging forgiveness. Steve brushes his hair back, holds him without words, without judgement. Bucky near weeps again, but he reminds himself of the tea awaiting them at his hut, lets himself bask in the glowing light that is Steve. 

He feels as though there is nothing he wants more than to lay somewhere warm and not think for a while. He knows all he has to do is ask and Steve will grant him this wish. He closes his eyes again briefly, and makes the decision to begin the road to forgiving himself. He has his answers. He has chosen life. Now he must live it. 

When he opens his eyes, Steve is gazing at him with a crease between his eyebrows. Bucky reaches up to smooth it away, gives him a soft smile. “Will you paint me?” he asks, the request coming to him like a hand reaching out to offer him the first blossom of spring. 

Steve just nods and helps Bucky up, plastering himself to his side, making the walk back to the hut more difficult that it needs to be. Neither of them mind. They settle in front of the fire, having stripped of their soaked clothes to be left outside. The tea is still steaming, the blankets still in the position they were left in. 

Bucky relaxes, laying in front of the fire on the rug and closing his eyes. One arm rests behind him, propping up his head, the other is limp on his stomach, his fingers splayed. One foot is tucked up underneath his other knee, the other stretched out in front of him. He takes a deep breath. Lets it out nice and slow. 

He listens to the sound of Steve painting him. There’s no talking, no vocal sounds. Only the swishing of the paintbrush on canvas, the dip of paint, the sloshing of water as the brush is cleaned. Hours tick by. The fire is dying down, but the night is warm and daylight will come soon. 

Bucky’s not sure when he falls asleep, but the next thing he knows he’s blinking open wary eyes and the sun is beaming in through the windows. Steve is nowhere to be seen, but the canvas stands proud against the wall. Bucky sits up, running a hand through his hair, grimacing at the snags he finds. 

He doesn’t bother getting dressed, just hunts down a comb. He’s sitting on the steps outside, trying to run the comb through his hair when he spots Steve. He’s in the garden, frowning down at some of the herbs, clearly confused. He has a small bundle of thyme in one hand, a rosemary sprig in the other. He looks...at home, here in the Lost Garden. 

Bucky breathes out at the thought, something akin to newborn hope filling his chest. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)


	11. Interlude

_ Sunlight, gold like a bountiful treasure, beams down upon the abundance of the garden, glimmering and glittering like the indifferent ocean’s gentle waves. All is calm, all is simple. There is nothing but wisps of days, waking up and heading out to become covered in dirt and sweat, nurturing plants to maturity, harvesting them when ready.  _

_ Flowers grow keen under his hands, trees flower in turn and become heavy with fruit and nuts. Everything is a cycle; he gives, he takes, he gives. Even the weeds that grow have a place in the garden, feeding the soil when pulled and cast into the compost pile. It’s satisfying, that nothing goes to waste.  _

_ Emotions are simple; they are fleeting, and never lingered on. The plants are all he wants for in company, despite the vague feeling that once this place had been bustling with beings alike and different from him.  _

_ Under the sun, nothing matters. It’s when he closes his eyes to sleep at night that he remembers there is something he’s forgetting; something important. It digs into his skin like thorns, tugs at his mind like the sea pulling sand back out to deeper waters. At night, he knows there is something behind the door that sits nestled in the hawthorn bush.  _

_ In the morning, under the sun, he forgets there was ever anything to worry about.  _


	12. A Mirage Will Fade, Unless Pleaded Otherwise

_ The thing is,  _ Steve thinks, with his hands buried in the dirt and face screwed up in concentration,  _ I am happier here than I have been anywhere.  _ The sun, golden and glowing, beats down on his bare back. The sun had not witnessed the horrors of the night before and in some ways, Steve is jealous of it. It had been horrific, seeing a person stripped back so bare their very bones gleamed in the storm rain. More so experiencing it happen to someone he so deeply cares for. It has been more than enough to plant a seed of new perspective. 

The morning after the storm has been anything but quiet; all the animals are frantic, confused. Bees swarm through the gardens, upset. Whales keen from close to shore, worried. The deer race around the orchards, on edge. But Bucky is doing the rounds of his world now, reassuring everything, taking stock of damages to be nursed back to health. 

Meanwhile, Steve is on his knees beside a garden bed, planting out lettuces with careful precision. He had simply asked Bucky what he could do to help, and Bucky had handed him several trays of strong seedlings. There had been minimal words exchanged, a kiss-on-the-cheek, a bashful smile.  _ We’ll talk later,  _ was the unspoken promise.

Steve feels tentative now, treading carefully, but in the sense that he’s trying to figure out where Bucky’s head is. Going through that - that betrayal of self, is something Steve isn’t sure he’s ever come close to experiencing. It’s not something he can readily sympathise with, anyway. All he can offer is, well,  _ himself _ ; to help Bucky in any way he needs. 

Steve shakes his head, taking a moment to clear it. He returns to his earlier thought; he is happy here. Out there, on Earth, he has  _ never  _ found anything like this feeling of floaty, simple peace. And that’s what it is, isn’t it? The simplicity. Here, the food is seeded, cared for, planted, harvested, eaten. There is a roof, a fire, water. Everything a human needs is here, and they just have to make it happen. 

There is nothing exchanged for life here except the work it takes to grow a carrot and stew it for dinner. That is it. No working for someone else in order to pay for food someone else got paid to grow. No working for someone else in order to pay a landlord to receive a basic human right; warmth, shelter. Everything here is earned the way it should be; everything here is connected. 

Steve billows out a heavy breath, resumes planting the lettuces. He’s getting the hang of it now, digging a small hole, dropping some worm castings in, placing the delicate roots of the lettuce down and patting soil around the plant. He smiles as he glances back at the haphazardous rows he’s planted so far; feels his chest swell with happiness. Pride. 

Does he want to go back?

The thought comes unbidden, but not out of nowhere. He’s been avoiding  _ really  _ exploring that train of thought for days. Now, it takes him up in arms and begs him to consider. He sighs, carefully taking another lettuce out of the tray. He thinks about the gallery showing he’d been hell-bent on preparing for, the one that had led him here. He’d been chasing happiness, hoping the new showing would have given him some happiness by furthering his art connections, opening new doors. 

He laughs, because in a way, it had. He wonders if he’d been thinking about doing gallery after gallery in an attempt to fill the void in his life; to create some sense of purpose. Because that’s all life is, isn’t it? He eats to live; purpose. He works for money; purpose. He goes to the park to fill his day; purpose. He paints things that catch his eye, shares them with people who want to see; purpose. 

Steve wonders if any of that matters. He tilts his head back to squint at the sun, as though it will answer his queries. He wonders, seriously, if there is a need for purpose. Can’t he just lay in the sun, plant veggies when needed, eat when his stomach growls? He craves for that simplicity; aches for it. It is nigh on impossible in the modern world on Earth, but here it hangs in front of him, tantalisingly close. 

He could be happy here. He laughs at himself, wonders at the knowledge. He could be happy here with  _ Bucky,  _ if Bucky also wishes it so. Then he sighs, his shoulders dropping from where they’d climbed up around his ears. His mind is a messy whirlwind, his whole life upended in just under a week. He’s not thinking overly clearly. Right now, he just wants to be here for Bucky. 

He looks down at the lettuce in his hand. It simply waits to be put in the dirt so it can grow. Steve snorts, shaking his head at himself and leaning back, rubbing his hands together to shake off some of the soil there. He looks around the garden, breaking his thought pattern on purpose; he’s had enough serious thinking for now. He just wants to lay in a patch of sun somewhere, preferably with Bucky at his side. 

As though he were listening in on Steve’s thoughts, Bucky appears at the edge of the garden, a soft smile on his face. He’s still wearing nothing, and the greenery around him seems to lean towards him as he walks past it. There is a certain calm about Bucky now, like recovering and then letting go of the forcibly repressed memories had freed him when he hadn’t known he was trapped. Steve’s pretty sure those are daisies popping up in the grass where Bucky’s feet had been. 

“How is everyone?” Steve asks when Bucky gets close enough. 

Bucky gives him a special smile; one that Steve’s learnt is just for him. It makes Bucky’s eyes sparkle and his face look a little dopey. Steve loves it. “They’re all well. Reassured, and safe. It’s like it never happened,” he murmurs. 

Steve reaches up a hand to be helped up, presses a kiss to Bucky’s lips when he’s standing. “And how are you?” 

“I’m…” Bucky pauses, really thinks about it before answering. “Better. Getting there.”

Steve hums, wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and pulls him close, resting his head on his chest. “You know,” he starts. “I heard somewhere that Thor’s solskinnskringle has magical properties to give someone’s day a happy boost,” he murmurs into Bucky’s skin. 

Bucky’s chest jumps as he laughs, the sound low and happy, if a bit tired. “That’s probably because it does,” he murmurs sleepily. “But not because of magic, because of how good it is.” 

Steve snorts. “And because of the sugar content?” he prompts. 

Bucky’s laugh is similar to a wheeze. “Probably,” he hums. “And now I want one,” he proclaims. 

“You sure you wanna go out today?” Steve asks quietly, looking up at him to search his face. 

Bucky’s smiling down at him, silver eyes glittering with something unbearably fond. “Yeah,” he says. “I’d like to think about something other than the fact that I sabotaged my own mind.”

Steve’s mouth twists like he’s tasted something bitter. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right? Hela rained that violence down on you, brought war to the one place that was supposed to be safe from it,” he murmurs, voice soft to take any of the sting away from his words. “She planted the seed of darkness.”

“Yeah, but I let it grow,” Bucky counters, looking away, voice strained. 

Regret twists in Steve’s stomach and he reaches up to gently cup Bucky’s cheek. He shouldn't have brought it up. “Hey, I’m sorry. Let’s just—not think about it today, okay?” 

Bucky’s eyes flicker back down to his, and he offers the beginnings of a smile. “Okay,” he agrees, his own hand coming up to cover Steve’s own. The gesture makes Steve’s heart flutter with anticipation, and, sure enough, Bucky leans down to capture his lips in a soft, chaste kiss. Steve kisses him back with a gentleness that he hopes conveys his sympathy, his love for Bucky and his determination to be here for him. 

By the way Bucky deepens the kiss, Steve thinks that maybe it does. 

They head out to the cafe late morning, after some simple kawa kawa tea. Bucky pulls his hair back into a loose bun and Steve makes sure to mention how pretty it makes him look, overly pleased with the way it makes Bucky’s face flush. Bucky retaliates by tucking a yellow daisy behind Steve’s air as they walk to the door, which has Steve’s cheeks flaming. 

They set a languid pace, in no rush. Bucky seems calm, if a bit quiet and on the thoughtful side. He flashes Steve a smile every now and then, as if reassuring him. Steve’s unconvinced, but he knows Bucky’s working through everything he’s learned. Everything he’s  _ remembered.  _ Steve wants to ask him about it, and maybe he will, but for now Bucky seems content in taking today easy. 

The cafe is open and bustling when they arrive, and Thor is chatting with a group at one of the tables, a wide grin on his face. He’s got flour all over his apron, and dark circles under his eyes that tell of a sleepless night. There’s the guy that works at the counter when Steve isn't, a guy by the name of Rocket who is eccentric and a little grouchy, but makes an incredible coffee and isn’t snappy at customers unless they deserve it. 

Thor looks up at the sound of the bell jingling, and his smile dims, morphing into something that betrays how worried he is. He covers it quickly, though, and excuses himself from the table. He walks over to meet them, a crease between his eyebrows. “Steve, Bucky,” he greets. Even his voice is weary. “How are you?” he asks. 

It’s Bucky who answers, giving Steve’s hand a quick squeeze. “Been better,” he says quietly. “Working through it.”

“How are  _ you?”  _ Steve asks Thor, squeezing Bucky’s hand back. Bucky makes a small _ ,  _ approving noise at the question. He must have seen the tiredness weighing Thor down, too. 

Thor grunts, his lips pressing together in a look of self-deprecating amusement. “Been better,” he echoes. “Digging up old memories is never fun, is it?” he says, raising an eyebrow. Then he shakes his head before either of them can answer. “But you’ve not come here for more sorrow. What can I get you?” 

Steve almost protests; it has clearly cost Thor something, telling them Bucky’s story. It was clear that it wasn’t just Bucky’s story, either. That had been a war Thor had  _ fought _ in, had probably lost so much to. But Steve can’t dwell on the thought; Bucky’s murmuring the magic word in answer to Thor’s question, almost bashful in the way he asks for the pastry. 

Thor grins again, his good eye lighting up, sparkling with delight. “Of course,” he says. “Have here or to go?” 

Bucky looks down at Steve and shrugs, the question on his face. Steve gets an idea; Bucky has shown him his world, welcomed him into it like he’d been  _ expecting  _ him. Steve wants to do the same in return. “To go,” he tells Thor. 

Steve can feel Bucky searching his face, but he just gives him a smile and follows Thor up to the counter. Thor’s putting two solskinnskringle into paper bags when Steve feels the back of his neck prickling. It feels like there are eyes boring into the back of his skull, but with a not-so-subtle glance around, he doesn’t see anyone. And yet the feeling doesn’t go away. 

Bucky nudges him gently, and when Steve looks up at him he has a concerned look on his face. Steve just shakes his head minutely, and although Bucky purses his lips, he drops it. They take the pastries from Thor and Steve hands over some cash, taking out his phone to get to his wallet. He glances at the screen out of habit, and finds a text from Tony there. He frowns, catching the words  _ ‘magic archives’  _ before he tucks it away again. He’ll look at it later. 

“You gonna be okay?” Thor asks Bucky quietly, once the transactions are done. 

Bucky lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. “I’ll get there. It’s in the past, right? Only way to go is forwards,” he says, his voice threaded with tentative hope.

Steve’s chest swells with all the pride and love he has for Bucky, and he has to tear his eyes away from Bucky’s face before his own dopey smile sticks there forever. He looks up at Thor and reaches out, placing a hand on his arm. “ _ You _ gonna be okay?” he echoes the question at him. 

The look Thor gives him sends ice down Steve’s spine. He wishes he hadn’t asked. Thor looks every bit his age for a split second, and Steve swallows past the sudden lump in his throat. “We’ll see,” is all Thor says, something glinting in his eye that reminds Steve of a hunted animal. It passes as quick as it came, and Thor glances at the busy cafe around them. “Better get back to work. I’ll see you later, guys,” he says, giving them another half-hearted smile. 

He slips past them, heading back to the table he’d been at when they arrived. Steve stares after him, before Bucky squeezes his hand to get his attention. Looking up at him, Steve finds his own concern reflected there. “Are  _ you  _ okay?” Bucky asks him, voice quiet. 

“I just -” Steve stops, looking away. “I feel like something is very wrong,” he says, the creeping sense that this isn’t all over crawling up his spine. If anything, it feels like Bucky regaining his memories is the beginning of something much darker. Steve gets the feeling that maybe Thor shares his hunch. 

Bucky presses his lips together, glancing over to where Thor is weaving through tables, picking up empty plates and smiling at customers. “Do you think Thor knows something else?” he asks. 

Steve shrugs, but he knows his face reads affirmative. “Yeah, maybe. I could ask him, but I don’t wanna bug him with it. He’s been living without...any of this, for so long”

“Are you sure about that?” Bucky murmurs, eyes flicking back to meet Steve’s. 

Steve feels his lips twist into a bitter expression, and he ducks his head. “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” he sighs. 

“If there’s something coming, we need to know,” Bucky says, voice tired yet laced with fierce determination. 

Steve blinks up at him and gives him a slow nod. He’s right. The feeling that something  _ is  _ coming shouldn’t be ignored. They can’t go into this—whatever  _ this  _ is—blind. And if it has anything to do with Hela, surely Thor would know, and surely it would affect him too. Hela fought the same wars Thor did, after all. 

He sighs, turning towards the entrance. Bucky follows him out, and they both wave at Thor as they go. Thor just gives them a look that is indecipherable, and Steve decides that yes, he will be asking Thor about this feeling later. 

“Where are we headed?” Bucky murmurs once they’re outside. 

This brings a smile to Steve’s lips and he ducks his head, flushing. “I wondered, uh, if you’d like to see my place?” 

“Your place?” Bucky echoes, his voice suddenly excited. 

Steve looks up at him, pleased to find delight written over Bucky’s face. “Yeah, I mean. You’ve shown me your home. I thought I’d show you mine,” he says, one shoulder lifting in a nervous shrug. 

“I’d love to,” Bucky proclaims, walking a little closer to Steve, bending his head to press a kiss to his temple. “Thank you,” he adds in a whisper. 

Steve beams up at him, his worries about the future retreating to the back of his mind. He focuses on the immediate now, and how lucky he feels to be in love and loved by Bucky. “My roommate, Nat, might be there,” he thinks to warn. “She’s a bit...protective, but she’s my best friend.”

Bucky just smiles. “I’ll be glad to meet her,” he says, and his voice is laced with enthusiasm. 

Steve feels his shoulders drop just that last little bit; he hadn’t really entertained the idea of Bucky and Nat meeting before, but now he realises how much he hopes that they get along. He squeezes Bucky’s hand, hoping it conveys how grateful he is to have Bucky at his side. Bucky just gives him a happy grin, and the rest of the walk to Steve’s apartment is spent in comfortable silence. 

There’s that stray black cat wandering down the street as they reach the apartment building. It passes them without sparing them a glance, it’s green eyes focused on what’s ahead. Steve finds himself watching it walk past, and isn’t surprised to find that Bucky does the same. As it disappears around the corner, Steve takes a moment to wonder if the cat feels the growing magic crackling in the air. 

When they get to the door of his apartment, Steve pats his pockets, only to find he’s left his key back at Bucky’s hut. He knocks, but when no one answers, he pulls out his phone to text Nat and ask where she is, giving Bucky an apologetic look. Bucky shrugs, unbothered. 

Steve unlocks his phone and sees a message from Thor waiting for him. It’s the unexplainable dread curdling in his stomach that makes him click on it. His mouths fills saliva and his jaw goes numb with nausea as he reads it. He’s sure his face drains of colour. 

“What is it?” Bucky asks, his voice threaded with worry. 

Steve hands him the phone, presses a hand to his own eyes as though he can unread everything. 

_ Hey, Steve. I should have told you as soon as I knew, but the both of you needed time to process what I’ve already told you. Hela is alive. I’m going to come over to yours this evening. There’s things you need to know.  _


	13. Two Sides to Every Coin

At first, there is a feeling of—nothing. Numbness. Blank, stagnant darkness. Bucky finds himself staring at his hand, once Steve has taken the phone back. His palm is calloused from the gardens, flows with his own blood, moves by his own will. Once, it had enacted violence upon another being, and no matter how vile Hela’s intentions had been, it still makes Bucky sick to think about it. 

“Bucky?” Steve’s asking, but it comes from far away, the sound echoing in the emptiness of Bucky’s mind. 

He must make a sound, or perhaps a face, or maybe Steve can just sense what he’s feeling, because the next thing Bucky knows, he’s being pulled into a fierce hug. Bucky huffs out a breath, wrapping his own arms around Steve in response, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. Steve’s making soothing shushing sounds, drawing circles at Bucky’s back. 

“She’s not dead,” Bucky hears himself saying. His voice sounds dull and lifeless. It scares even him. 

Steve pulls back a little and searches Bucky’s face, one hand cupping his cheek. “No, she’s not,” he whispers. “Can you look at me?” he asks. 

Bucky realises his eyes have drifted down to stare, unseeing, at their feet; Steve’s covered, his bare. He thinks about the strange looks he’d been given, about how they’d flowed over like water on a duck’s back. He hadn’t been interested in people’s negativity; he’d been holding Steve’s hand, walking with him to his home. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, and this time, it’s a little worried. 

Bucky stands to attention, his eyes flickering back up to meet Steve’s. “What does this mean?” he asks, sounding strained even to his own ears. 

Steve presses his lips together, looking by all means unsure of the answer. “I don’t know,” he whispers, moving his thumb under Bucky’s chin to hold his head still; Bucky had been absently shaking his head, as though his body were denying the facts. “I know who we can ask, though,” Steve’s adding. 

“Thor?” Bucky asks. 

Steve nods his head, something akin to sorrow flitting over his expression. “I want to say we’ve bothered him enough, but, well. He’s coming over anyways.”

Bucky grits his teeth, shutting his eyes. He’s still horribly numb, but exhaustion is creeping back in. Will this ever end? Or is he doomed to live in double-sided happiness, darkness always bordering it days, waiting for the coin to flip and so to rein? He shakes his head again, pulls away from Steve’s gentle hold, opens his eyes to see his own fears reflected in Steve’s eyes. But the fear is for him; the knowledge is like a bridge collapsing, smashing down into the river below. 

The tide washes up over Bucky, and he chokes back a sob. Steve hurries to hold him again, a noise of despair spilling from his throat. Bucky  _ feels  _ it, the all-consuming ocean of emotion that threatens to wash Bucky away. He clenches his jaw against it, pushes it down to deal with later. He can’t—not so soon. 

“Hey, I can feel you trying not to feel,” Steve whispers, his voice thick with unshed tears. 

Bucky shudders. “I can’t go through that again so soon,” he croaks. 

Steve makes a noise of sympathy and simply continues to hold him while he gathers himself. Eventually, Bucky straightens up again and wipes at his eyes, dragging a hand down his face, the callouses scraping against his skin, grounding him. Steve’s watching him, but he can’t lift his eyes from the ground just yet. 

“Shall we go inside?” Steve asks. 

Bucky remembers the solskinnskringle he’s  _ still  _ holding, safe and enticing in their paper bags. His stomach gives a little rumble, and he ducks his head, bashful. Steve laughs, quiet and tentative, but seems to understand. He reaches for his phone, presumably to text his roommate as he was going to before they saw Thor’s text, but then he has no need to. 

Bucky senses her before he sees or hears her. His head snaps up on instinct and he whips around to face her. Her hair is the first thing he notices; still fiery red. Her face is still impossible to read, but it has traces of the being he once knew. His first thought is something along the lines of  _ what is she doing here?  _ His second, once he sees her modern clothing, the key in her hand and the bags of food in her other, he thinks;  _ of course.  _

“Well, hello boys,” Natalia says, her eyes twinkling with ages-old amusement. 

Bucky swallows against a dry throat, his head spinning uneasily. He remembers, as though through fog, a time where his world had been as busy as the modern world today. People had come and gone, treating it as a getaway place, a space to let go of all and any commitments and forget there was anything other than who they truly were. It was something of a novelty, especially for those who were wrapped up in the politics of Gods and Goddesses. 

“Hey, Nat!” Steve’s exclaiming, and Bucky acknowledges Natalia’s nickname, the once-over she gives him and realises; this is Steve’s roommate. Natalia is Steve’s friend. Bucky feels off-kilter, confused as he tries to process it.  

He inwardly shakes himself, wonders if he’d just imagined the similarities; Natalia had been been human, once. She had stumbled through the door to his world hundreds of years ago, her hair under a scarf and her eyes wild with fear. According his mostly unreliable memory, she had come to Bucky’s world to escape some deadly people she’d wronged. She’d been instrumental in a lot of secrets becoming public knowledge, apparently, and they had been hunting her. She’d stayed with Bucky for a long time. 

She’d...she’d become less and less human as the years passed.  

Bucky’s aware of Natalia— _ Nat— _ and Steve talking, but his tired mind is conjuring up a memory tinged with red; but, for once, it’s a warm colour instead of one that flows from violence. 

_ Flashes of wavy red, crimson strands washing over a pale, pointed face. Eyes greener than the gingko leaves in the beginning of summer, lips pinker than peonies. Voice low and words slow, small hands carefully tugging through his knotted hair, pulling it into a loose braid. Anxious emotion from her, soft reassurance from him.   _

_ “I have changed. I am no longer human, am I? Being here, your world accepting me, housing me, feeding me, caring for me as I do it had changed me,” she is murmuring.  _

_ “I did not know this would happen,” is his reply, worried.  _

_ An un-Goddess like snort. “I am not complaining. You have given me more than you can ever know.” _

_ “But you can never be human again.” _

_ “Good. They will never again have the chance to kill me.”  _

He blinks, disoriented as the memory fades, leaving him with ears ringing, mouth slightly ajar. He’s sure it’s her;  _ knows  _ it is. A smile curls at his lips. She’d been right, then. And— _ oh.  _ Staying in his world, having his world accept a human...he looks at Steve, his heart thumping unevenly as he realises what could happen if Steve stayed. 

“Bucky?” 

He blinks, coming back into focus, having been so deep in thought he’d forgotten that they were standing outside of Steve and—and  _ Nat’s  _ home. “Yes?” he prompts, an apologetic look sliding onto his face. 

Steve’s expression is concerned; he has a hand on Bucky’s arm, the pressure gentle. It’s grounding, brings Bucky fully back to the present. “Are you okay?” Steve asks. 

Bucky glances at Nat. He wonders if Steve knows, but, if how shocked he was at finding Bucky’s world, he doubts it. “Yeah,” he says. “I just—remembered something.” 

There’s a twinkle in Nat’s eye that betrays how amused she is by this whole thing. She gives a minute shake of her head and Bucky knows then to not say anything. “Good or bad?” Steve’s asking, moving a little closer. Bucky leans into his warmth. 

“Good,” he murmurs with a glance at Nat. Something like surprise twitches at her lips, but the indifferent mask slides back over her face before he can really read into it. 

Steve hums, and when Bucky looks down at him, he’s studying his face thoughtfully. “Did you want to go inside? We could eat, then I can text Thor and see how far away he is,” he says, dropping the subject once he’s sure Bucky’s telling the truth. 

Bucky shrugs, and Steve gives him another frown, but then Nat’s unlocking the door and they’re all bustling inside. It’s warm, Earth’s summer still going strong, but it’s cooler in here than it is outside. Something loosens inside Bucky now that they’re inside, and he finds himself looking around with wide eyes, just now remembering that this is Steve’s  _ home.  _ The excitement from earlier wells back up. 

There are countless pieces of art on the walls, some very clearly Steve’s, others not. There’s a couch and a few mismatched chairs, a beat-up rug on the floor in front of a weird flat black thing that sits on the wall. To the left of that, there’s what Bucky presumes is a kitchen, except there’s no obvious place for a fire, so he’s not too sure. There are closed doors that draw his attention, but for now Nat is moving towards the probably-a-kitchen and is getting water from a tap, filling a strange looking kettle with it. 

Bucky takes a step forward into the space, glancing down at Steve. He finds Steve watching him with a soft smile on his face. “What do you think?” Steve asks him. 

“It’s your home,” Bucky replies, feeling calmer than he has in what feels like a while, but in reality has been only a few days. 

Steve seems to get the sentiment, because he gives Bucky a wide smile and tugs him over to the table beside the kitchen, gesturing to set the pastries down. Bucky sits at one of the chairs, eager to not think about the news they had just received, or any of the things he’s learned today. 

The sound of boiling water comes from the kettle Nat had filled up, and soon tea is being poured. It’s chamomile—from Bucky’s garden. He remembers giving it to Steve upon request and it’s almost funny, now, that it’s serving to calm Bucky right when he needs it. He takes a cup from Nat, eagerly wrapping his hands around it, and brings it to his face to inhale the steam. 

He feels his shoulder relax, the tension he’d been subconsciously holding in his body seeping right out. He sighs, smiling at Steve as he comes to sit down beside him. “Better?” Steve asks him. 

“Better,” Bucky agrees, despite the anxiety and fear bubbling just under the surface. There are terrible things to come, he knows, but right now he is content and safe. It’s all he needs. 

Nat sits down across from them, and Bucky doesn’t miss the warning look Steve sends her. He’s suddenly aware that Nat knows Steve in a way that Bucky doesn’t; and vice versa. She’s sipping her tea, nonchalant, a little up-tilt to her lips. There’s something about this moment that makes Bucky realise that his world really has been tipped on its head. 

Hela, a Norse Goddess, attacked his world one hundred years ago and drove him to ripping his own memories out. He also locked the door, effectively shutting himself from human and otherwise interaction for said hundred years. He remembered all of this...yesterday. And now, he’s here, sipping chamomile tea with an old friend who used to be human, who is also the love of his life’s best friend. 

And Hela is somewhere out there, alive and apparently gaining her power back. 

Bucky thinks back to Thor’s demeanor in the cafe, the haunted look in his eyes, the exhaustion written into every line of his body. He wonders if he’s preparing for a possible battle. And that makes Bucky think; if there is to be a battle, will he have to fight in it? 

The very thought makes him sick to his stomach, makes him want to heave and dispel the darkness he  _ knows  _ is still rooted deep inside him, waiting to be of use, waiting to take his mind again and give him over to violence and anger and death. It craves battle, hungers for it in a way that reminds him of the taste of blood. 

He looks down at his pastry and pulls a piece off of it, feeling hollow inside. He’s faintly aware of Nat and Steve talking, casting worried looks at him, but he hears Steve mention Hela in a strained voice, and he knows they’re both giving him time to process. He glances up in time to see Nat’s face go white, but she remains composed, no doubt maintaining her cover. 

Bucky pops the piece of solskinnskringle into his mouth and closes his lips around it, the flavours exploding on his tongue. His eyes close as he tastes it, chews it, shallows it. He knows Thor’s magic in his own right; the Norse God of Thunder, but he thinks then that Thor’s real magic lays in doing what he loves. 

Bucky wonders why magic had started dying out. He remembers back to the rumors, just over a hundred years ago;  _ Ragnarok,  _ they whisper. The end of the world. Well, the world as a whole hadn’t ended, but many lives had been lost. Magic had faded, slowly. It’d all come to head after Hela attacked his world; he isn’t sure what exactly happened, hasn’t asked, but before he closed his door he had been aware that all the blood and death and battles were coming to an end. There had been hardly anyone left to fight. 

He sighs and takes another piece of solskinnskringle, eats it just as slow as the last piece to give himself something happy to think about. Something happy to feel. At the thought, he glances at Steve, knows his face is betraying his love for the man. He’s come out fairly...well, all things considered. 

He’s alive, for one. His memories have returned, albeit sometimes horrible. He’s in love and loved. 

His stomach flip-flops as Steve seems to sense his eyes on him, and turns to meet his gaze. The smile that spreads over Steve’s face is soft and tender, and Bucky returns it, feeling bashful. There’s so much hanging in the balance, now. If it comes to a fight, and Steve’s in danger? He knows he will willingly armour up. 

“We were just saying that Thor’s gonna come over late this evening,” Steve says, voice gentle like he’s guiding Bucky out of his own head. 

Bucky glances at Nat again, notes the raised eyebrow, eyes hard as flint. He wonders how hard she’s had to work to stay hidden. She disappeared before the war really kicked in, went to ground, buried herself so deep no one could find her. Bucky remembers asking, remembers keeping an ear out for her and many, many others. 

“Does he have news of Hela?” Bucky asks, his voice but a rasp. 

Steve shrugs, clenching his jaw. “I guess we’ll find out,” he says quietly. 

“If she’s alive, is she going to come after you?” Nat asks, voice steely with her seriousness. 

Steve looks at her, horrified, mouth already open, but Bucky speaks before he can. “Maybe. She didn’t exactly finish the job last time, so she might still have a...grudge,” he murmurs. 

Nat turns a glare on Steve. “How did you manage to get yourself in this much shit?” she hisses. 

_ “Nat,”  _ Steve growls. “You’re being insensitive.” 

“Insensitive? You stumble on a magic world and fall in love with a strange, magic guy and now you’re smack bang in the middle of an ages-old war?” she snaps back, quick as a whip. 

Bucky knows she’s right to be concerned for Steve, but he sees the way her knuckles are white around her mug, fear making her shoulders quiver. A glance to his right tells him that Steve’s about to boil over, his teeth gritten, steam practically coming out of his ears. 

“Guys,” he says, and they both stop to look at him. “If it comes down to it, I’m keeping this far away from  _ both  _ of you.” 

Nat lifts her chin, narrowing her eyes. The deep bond they had shared is nowhere to be seen, and it hurts his heart, but he understands it. She’s built this new life for herself, to escape from everything that has now come right to her door. She’s not about to let it go. Steve, on the other hand, seems to grow  _ more  _ furious. 

“What, and I’m supposed to just stand aside while you go through all of that  _ again?”  _ Steve demands, voice thin with barely contained fury. “Suppose you die. Have you thought about what that might do to me?” 

Bucky flinches, looking down. “I haven’t thought about this much at all,” he admits. 

It’s silent for only a moment, and then Steve’s hands are reaching out, almost hesitant in the way they take his. “Hey, Buck, shit. I’m sorry, I just—I can’t lose you,” he whispers, sounding choked. 

Bucky looks up again, torn. “If Hela comes for me, we might not have a choice,” he rasps. 

Steve has this heartbroken, defiant look on his face that makes Bucky’s heart soar with his love for him. Steve shakes his head, glancing at Nat, who is watching this all with a stony, expressionless face. “You always have a choice,” Steve says, voice like steel. 

Bucky frowns at him, chews it over. He’s not wrong, but in this case, the only other options that come to mind are running, which isn’t  _ really  _ a choice, considering Bucky would die if he were away from his world too long. The other choice is that Bucky shuts the door to his world again, but he’d have no way to receive word that the danger had passed - if it ever did. 

Nevertheless, arguing with Steve makes him feel shaky and exhausted, so he drops the subject and sighs. “Okay, Steve,” he says, brushing a thumb over Steve’s knuckles, looking down at their clasped hands. 

Steve makes a pained noise, and when Bucky glances up, he reads the desperate indecision there. It fades as Bucky levels him with a tired look, conveying that he just wants to put this aside for now. Steve sighs, relenting, and turns to Nat. 

“We’re gonna have a nap, I think. Sorry for dragging this all to our doorstep, Nat,” he says. “I know you never asked for this.”

Nat purses her lips. “And you did?” she asks. 

Steve just sighs and stands up. He’s finished his pastry, and his tea. Bucky picks up the rest of his solskinnskringle and makes quick work of it, washing it down with the chamomile, before taking his dishes up to where Steve’s rinsing his and Nat’s. “Are you okay?” Bucky asks him quietly. 

Steve huffs out a dry laugh. “No,” he says seriously. “But we’ll know more tonight. I need a plan, or something. Not knowing what to do is driving me crazy.” 

“We’ll be okay,” Bucky tries, a hand at the small of Steve’s back to attempt comforting him. 

Steve looks at him, something desperate in his eyes. “Do you really think that?” he demands. 

Bucky’s silence speaks the words that he cannot bear to taint the air with. Steve gives a short nod and turns back to the dishes. Bucky tries to stave off the ice that curls up in his stomach, instead feels it spread to his veins. He hangs his head, wondering how everything had gone so wrong when it had just, for a few, beautiful days, been so right. 


	14. You Want It Darker? We Kill The Flame

They curl up in Steve’s bed for a nap after the dishes are done. Nat seems to have disappeared, probably into her room or out for a run, blowing off some steam somewhere. Steve can’t help but think of how she’d reacted to Bucky’s story; to Hela’s name. He knows Nat’s afraid of what’s coming, wonders if it’s because she doesn’t want to lose him or if it’s something much, much more. He wonders how she’s wrapped up in this.

It’s telling of how exhausted he is, that Bucky just seems to fall right asleep in the cocoon of Steve’s arms. It gives Steve time to think, at least. 

If Hela really is alive, and if magic is making a resurgence in this world, then they have something to worry about. Even if Hela doesn’t want to target Bucky specifically, Steve thinks that there must be some kind of war coming. He’d read the fear in Thor’s eye, seen the weariness there. You don’t look like that if you think everything is over. 

If there  _ is  _ a war coming, Steve wants to help. Oh, he knows that Nat will try her damndest to stop him, and Bucky might too, but he’s going to do his part. He’s vehement of this fact, has never been more sure of anything in his life, apart from Bucky. It courses through his veins, burning him inside out, the need to do something;  _ anything  _ to make a difference, if it means Bucky’s safe at the end of the day. 

He thinks;  _ what can I do to help?  _ He’s not entirely sure, but there must be something. He resolves to wait until they have more information. He can barely hope to make a difference without knowing that there’s some kind of plan, or at least an agenda from the other side. 

Bucky sniffs in his sleep, shifts a little, his head tucking itself under Steve’s chin. 

Steve swallows, closing his eyes to compose himself. He’s got a lot to lose. Before he met Bucky, maybe he wouldn’t have thought twice about a war. He has a life here on Earth, an art gallery that he’s supposed to be preparing for. All of it is chips compared to the dilemma he faces now. 

And that’s what it is, isn’t it? Just that morning, he’d been thinking about leaving his life behind to join Bucky in his world. Now, he’s not even thinking twice about throwing himself head-first into a potential battle with the hopes to save the love of his life. To make a difference. He knows that the connection he has with Bucky is something insane, something he’s incredibly blessed to experience. He won’t throw it away. He can’t even consider turning away from Bucky. He’s at his side till the end of the line, now. 

The realisation, put into words in his head, makes his heart clench. He’s found his purpose, and it’s the all-consuming love he has for this not-man. The need to do good by him, the want to protect and cherish him. 

Steve lets out a sigh, brushes a finger up the side of Bucky’s bicep, watches the gooseflesh that raises in response. He won’t change his mind, he knows. He’s all-in. 

Eventually, though his head continues spinning it’s thoughts, he succumbs to the slow, lulling in-and-out of Bucky’s breathing. He joins him in sleep, his dreams are dark writhing masses of what look like tentacles, taking ahold of his thoughts and tugging at them, threatening to pull them out one by one. 

He wakes sweating, Bucky nowhere to be found. 

He sits up, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes until lights explode behind them. He takes a deep breath, horrified to find it shaky when he lets it out. He moves a hand to press against his mouth like he can swallow the sob that threatens. 

When he feels calm enough, he checks the time on his phone, calculates that he’s been asleep for roughly three hours. He gets up, feeling off-balance and out of sorts. He goes looking for Bucky, finds him at the kitchen table with Thor, twin mugs of steaming drinks in front of them. Thor’s talking quietly, Bucky’s listening with a stony face, knuckles white around the handle of his cup. 

“Thor,” Steve says, walking further into the room, coming to stand beside Bucky, a hand drifting to his shoulder a squeezing. A look;  _ are you okay?  _ Bucky just gives him a short nod that Steve takes for a grain of salt. 

“Steve,” Thor greets, looking up to give him a smile. It looks impossibly tired. “Welcome to the land of the waking.”

Steve shoots him a  _ look,  _ one eyebrow raised because he was  _ tired,  _ okay? “You haven’t been waiting long?” he settles on. 

Thor shakes his head. “We were waiting for you to get up. We were talking of a time when magic was common.” 

Steve sighs, sitting down beside Bucky, his hand finding his and holding it tight, comforted by the connection. “Thanks,” he murmurs. “Could have woken me,” he says to Bucky, tone a little darker than he’d meant. 

Bucky shoots him a concerned look, but he doesn’t say anything. The set of his jaw makes Steve wonder if he had darker dreams, too. There’s something in his gut that tells him there’s more to the dreams than he can comprehend, and he makes a mental note to ask Bucky about it later. 

“So,” Thor says, drawing him from his thoughts. “Here’s what I have.” He pulls a folder from a backpack, his smile becoming a little strained. “I’ve been keeping tabs on all magical creatures I know.”

Steve sucks in a breath, leaning forwards. “So you know where Hela is?” he asks. “Where she went after the war?”

Bucky goes stiff, his teeth grinding. Steve turns to him, immediately concerned, reaching out as though he can brush away the sudden fear that holds Bucky rigid. “Bucky?” he asks. Even Thor is silent, waiting. 

Bucky shakes his head. “Ragnarok was more than a war,” he croaks. “It was...it was just  _ more,”    _ he attempts to explain, seeming frustrated. “It went on, building and building, and no one was ever on top. Gods and Goddesses died every day. Mortals, too. People who weren’t even  _ fighting.” _

Steve watches the way Bucky works his jaw, like he’s taking all the anger he’s feeling and pulverising it, grinding it down to nothing and swallowing it down to where his stomach will break it down to nothing. “Bucky?” he asks, a hand on Bucky’s forearm, skin-on-skin, hoping it will help. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

Bucky’s shoulders droop again and he sighs. “I sheltered people who ran from Ragnarok. It was meant to be a safe place. I was meant to keep them  _ safe. _ ” His eyes turn flinty. “I failed.” 

“You went up against  _ Hela,  _ Bucky,” Steve murmurs. He hates that guilt plagues Bucky’s waking hours, hates that he blames himself. But feelings are hardly ever reasonable. “You were never meant for war, you know that.” 

Bucky curls his upper lip, but the anger isn’t directed at Steve. Steve’s not sure if it  _ has  _ a direction. “No, I wasn’t. But I feel it in me, the darkness. It’s like a stain, spreading over the parts of me meant for life and love. If this comes to war again, I’ll be ready this time.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say to that. He swallows against a dry throat and sits back in his chair, his hand coming back to himself. Bucky doesn’t seem to notice the lack of physical contact; he’s staring down at his hands, which are clenching and unclenching. Steve’s heart thuds unevenly in his chest and he looks away, back to Thor. 

Thor clears his throat, something like pity passing across his expression, but it’s gone too fast for Steve to be sure. “Bucky’s right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Ragnarok was much more than a war. And...it never exactly  _ ended.”  _ The words hang in the air like a threat. No one really wants to hear what comes next, and Thor’s voice is strained as he goes on to relay what he knows. 

“Magic is making a come-back,” he says. “I don’t know why, not yet, only that it is. It’s been building for the past decade, making itself known in the subtle ways; creatures magic by nature coming out of hiding, weird energy spikes passing through, doors opening the way to other worlds. Why isn’t this public knowledge? Well, because the authorities don’t want anyone to panic, of course. Keep everyone under control.” There’s a glint in Thor’s eye that betrays how furious he is. 

“What does it mean for the Gods and Goddesses of old? The ones that are still alive?” Bucky asks, looking up from his lap. 

Thor presses his lips together like he doesn’t want to answer. “We’re gaining back our strength, our power. I don’t know what this means for sure, but I can speculate. Ragnarok was left unfinished. Many died, but others escaped, retreated when the magic started fading. They might want to finish what they started.”

The statement pierces something in Steve’s chest, gets his breathing up. He shudders, like ice water is being poured over his neck, and glances at Bucky. Bucky’s face is pale, his eyes unseeing. Steve doesn’t know what to  _ do;  _ in this moment, Bucky feels unreachable. He’s angry, scared and tired and Steve wants to be there for him, but Bucky’s shutting him out.

“So you know where Hela is?” Bucky asks, voice flat. 

Steve’s racing heart kicks up another notch, if possible. He wants to cover his ears, his eyes, his mouth. He doesn’t want to know, doesn’t want to suffer the consequences of knowing. Of  _ fearing.  _ Because the moment it’s truly confirmed that Hela is out there, that she’s somewhere real, somewhere tangible, it makes it real. It makes all of this real. 

A muscle in Thor’s jaw jumps and he focuses on the folder in front of the three of them. He flicks through it, stops on a page and slides it over to them. 

It’s a list. A list of names, information on who the names are and where the owners of the names are. Steve leans forwards, his eyes scanning, scanning, scanning. His eyes catch on Bucky’s name, then, both surprisingly and unsurprisingly, Nat’s. There aren’t many names that he recognises, but then—there she is. Hela. Steve feels himself flinch like he’s not really in his body. Like an echo of the movement. 

_ Hela. Goddess of Death. Ruler of Hel and Niflheim. Status; Alive. Current Location; Unknown. Last Known Location; Norway, 2008. _

Steve sits back in his chair, barely breathing. Magic is making a come-back. It’s been building for the past decade. The old Gods and Goddesses have been regaining their powers.  _ Unfinished business.  _ He dares glance at Bucky, who is still silent.

There is blatant fear on his face. 

It makes Steve want to choke, want to spit and scream and curse the world for being so unfair, for being so terrible and unjust. But he cannot do that; it would make everything so much worse, so he stays silent and hopes that Bucky will accept the hand that reaches and offers comfort, a lifeline. It’s like a flower blooming in his heart, the relief that floods Steve when he feels Bucky squeeze his hand, when he sees the fear becoming a secondary emotion to gratefulness. 

Bucky glances at him, out of the corner of one wet eye, and gives him a soft, shaky smile. “So she’s been unaccounted for around a decade?” he says, turning back to Thor.  

Thor nods, something like the darkness Steve feels brewing in his own chest shining in his eyes. “And we all know what that coincides with,” he replies. 

“The magic coming back to strength,” Steve practically growls. Bucky squeezes his hand again, calming him. Steve lets his shoulders drop from where they’d risen up around his ears, and he sighs. 

“So, she’s out there biding her time, huh? Getting her strength back, waiting to rain hell down on us,” Bucky says, the bland tone he must have been going for failing, despair plain as day in his voice. 

Thor shakes his head, as though in denial. “We don’t know that. We can’t  _ believe  _ that, or we’ve lost hope already. We need to take precautions, that’s all. Be ready for the worst, but hope for the best.” He speaks like he’s already got those precautions in place, Steve notices. 

“Hope?” Bucky bites out, bitter and ugly. Steve flinches at it, looks over to him in surprise. Bucky’s expression is twisted, like he’s warring with himself, and—well, perhaps he is. “If hope is all we have, we might as well give up now, string ourselves up for her to come and gut us when she’s ready.” 

_ “Bucky,”  _ Steve hisses, shocked. “How can you say that?” he asks, undeniable hurt lacing his tone, because  _ fuck,  _ is that really what Bucky thinks? 

Bucky blinks, as though he’s surprised himself. “I—” he starts, but then he breaks off, his face twisting into an expression of despair. “I just...I know what it’s like, to go up against her,” he whispers. “I don’t think hope will ever be enough.”

Steve wants to wrap him up and hide him away, but he can’t. Thor speaks before he can, and his tone is dark. “I know what it’s like to go up against her, as well. But we must have hope. If we have lost that, then we have nothing ahead of us but a fight we’re bound to lose,” he says. 

Bucky lets out a heavy breath. “You’re gaining your powers back, too?” he asks. 

Thor nods, glancing away. “Yes,” a bitter laugh following the word. “Just when I was getting used to being a little human.”

There’s a moment of silence where no one says anything, as though they’re letting the reality of everything sink in. If Hela really is coming back to finish Ragnarok, then they have to be ready. Steve sighs, squeezing Bucky’s hand again, seeking comfort from him. Bucky glances over at him, manages a small smile that Steve returns. There’s something in Bucky’s eye that Steve tries to read, but he’s looking away before he can. 

Thor clears his throat and sits back in his chair. “So, precautions,” he says, forcibly bringing them back to the matter at hand. 

Steve glances at Bucky, finds him staring at his hands again, but this time he just looks thoughtful. “We need to get word out,” Bucky murmurs. He lifts his head, steel in his eyes. “If it comes to a fight, I can’t take her alone. I’ve tried, it didn’t work.” His voice is almost numb and Steve squeezes his hand, wishing he could help with the memories that cloud Bucky’s mind. 

“You won’t be alone,” Thor assures him. 

“Surely you already knew that,” Steve adds, feeling slightly offended. There’s no place he’d be except at Bucky’s side.

He can feel Bucky’s eyes boring into him, and Steve casts him a look that he hopes conveys something like  _ ‘and I still don’t think you should be fighting either, but at this point nothing's going to stop either of us’.  _ Bucky juts out his jaw and looks away, but there’s a terrible  to the motion. 

“I didn’t want to assume,” Bucky says, voice tight. “We don’t know where she’ll go first, but I have a hunch it’ll be my world. She’ll have to get through the door again, and she’ll be weak. That’s our best chance. If it comes to it, I can lock to door behind her. She won’t be able to get out again.”

Steve glares at him, horrified. “Only if it comes to it,” he says darkly, acknowledging what Bucky’s offering; himself. 

“Precautions,” Bucky reminds him. “We need plans A through Z, here, Steve.”

Steve sighs, looking away, down at his and Bucky’s clasped hands. “What can we realistically do against the Goddess of Death?” he asks the room. 

Bucky snorts, shifting in his seat, leaning forwards to take his forgotten cup in hand, taking a sip of the now-cold drink before speaking. “Stay off her radar?” he suggests, but the way he holds himself tells Steve that he’s seriously thinking about this. 

“I know you’re joking to lighten the mood, but that’s not something I’d cross off the list,” Thor says. “How did you defeat her last time?” 

Bucky freezes, his eyes going far-away, seeing something that is long past but so fresh in his mind. Steve glares at Thor, wants to smack him for asking, but it’s a valid question and Bucky’s already shaking his head, coming back to them. “I don’t really know. I just...gave myself over to the darkness. Everything I remember is like...looking through frosted glass,” he whispers. 

“What did the darkness do?” Thor prompts, leaning forwards. 

Bucky curls a lip as though warning him, but it’s shaky, and Steve steps in before this can derail. “Maybe we can get back to you on that one, Thor,” he says. 

Thor narrows his eyes, but he sits back again, sighing. He looks terribly sad, and he shoots an apologetic look to Bucky. “Yeah. That knowledge will help, when you’re ready,” he murmurs. “Last time I fought her I nearly lost my eye, and I  _ did  _ lose my hammer.”

Despite Steve  _ knowing  _ that Thor is  _ Thor,  _ God of thunder, it still comes as a shock to hear it tossed out so calmly. He’s always known that Thor was magic, that he wasn’t human, but he’d never suspected him to be a Norse God. It’s not like he’d thought that his boss and friend called Thor was  _ the  _ Thor. 

He takes a breath to steady himself, shaking his head and reins himself back into the conversation at hand. While Steve knows that any information Bucky has would help—and he’s morbidly curious himself, ashamed of himself for it—but at the expense of Bucky’s well-being he  _ will not _ force him to recount it, not so soon after remembering. “Okay, so, avoiding,” Steve says, bringing it back to the previous idea.

Bucky rolls his eyes, taking a deep breath to anchor himself. “I mean, the best way to not die is avoid things that’d cause death, right?”

“Right,” Thor shoots back, something like humor dancing across his face. “That’s...smart. Something I never really learned.” And there’s that ages-old expression, one that goes impossibly sad for a moment. “Weren’t you gearing up to fight just a moment ago?”

Bucky narrows his eyes, his grip on Steve’s hand tightening. “I said I would if I  _ had  _ to. I don’t want to have to fight. I don’t even want to be discussing this right now. I want—” he cuts himself off, gritting his teeth and slumping back in his chair. 

“Buck?” Steve asks, squeezing his hand to ground him. 

Thor’s silent again, apology written into his body language. Bucky shakes his head, huffing out an exasperated sigh. “I need to go back,” he says quietly. “It feels—wrong, to be away for so long. It’s messing with my mind, I can’t think straight.” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course, Bucky,” Steve’s saying, already tensing to stand up and get Bucky  _ home.  _

Thor clears his throat and stands, gathering the file. His shoulders look as though they are physically carrying some great weight and Steve almost expects him to stumble under it. “You’ve been away for awhile,” he muses, tucking the folder away. “I won’t keep you, but expect a visit from me in a few days. I’ll bring pastries,” he adds, casting a solemn look at Bucky, before looking Steve in the eye. “Think carefully about the choices you’re going to make,” he says quietly. 

And then he’s gone before Steve can ask him what he means, or even call him out on how evasive that statement is. Irritation slides up Steve’s back as Thor walks out the door, shutting it carefully behind so it doesn’t make a sound. Bucky’s presence grounds Steve, calms him, so he takes a moment to breathe. He has more important things to worry about than  _ choices.  _ Bucky will always be it for him, so choices are easy. There is nothing to think about.   

He tries to shove the overload of information aside, and then he’s leaning towards Bucky, telegraphing his movements until he’s gathering him up in a hug. Bucky’s shaking, he realises, just enough for it to be chattering his teeth. Steve makes a low noise, distressed, and hugs Bucky tighter. 

“You could’a said something earlier,” he murmurs to him. 

Bucky huffs, his face tucked into the crook of Steve’s neck. “This was important. We needed to know what was going on,” he says. 

“Okay,” Steve sighs, not wanting to argue about this as well. “Let's get you home now, though, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers, standing up when Steve does, staying close to him. 

Steve texts Nat to let her know they’re heading back to Bucky’s world, but he doesn’t get a reply before they leave the apartment. Steve grabs his backpack and slings it over his shoulder, one hand pulling the door shut behind him, the other in Bucky’s grasp. They swing their hands between them as they walk, dusk settling over the city around them.

Bucky’s still shaking, but it’s not so bad now that they’re moving. Steve stays close to him anyway, offers his shoulder to press against. Bucky seems comforted by the touch, and by the time they get to the door, he’s calmed down. They don’t hesitate, pushing the door open and near stumbling in, Bucky sucking in a relieved gasp as his bare feet land on the grass. 

Steve feels the tension seep from his body, takes a moment to glance behind him and watch Brooklyn disappear behind the door. When he looks back, he realises that this feels more like home than the one he’d just shown Bucky. He tucks the feeling away, saves it to think about later. 

“Steve,” Bucky murmurs, something in his voice that has Steve’s heart sinking. 

Steve blinks, focusing on him. Bucky’s not looking down at him; he’s looking out at the grove. Steve follows his gaze and feels his jaw drop. The place looks... _ tired.  _ It’s the only word he can think of to describe it. Previously sun-happy plants are drooping, leaves are brown on trees, the sky is overcast and gloomy. 

“Oh, Buck,” Steve says, turning to him and wrapping an arm around his waist. 

Bucky goes with the movement, leaning down to bury his face in the crook of Steve’s neck. He sighs, hugging Steve close. There are no words, so Steve just holds him. This place is a reflection of Bucky; of hows he’s feeling. Steve is well versed in that knowledge. It’s like a hit to the stomach, seeing for himself how low Bucky’s feeling right now. 

“Let’s go lie down,” Steve whispers. 

Bucky nods against his neck, and lets Steve guide him through the grove. The orchard is not much better; it seems old and exhausted, branches hanging low, some trees barren of fruit. The gardens look  _ unloved,  _ which hurts Steve the most, because he  _ knows  _ how much care Bucky puts into them. 

They near stumble into the hut. Steve sets his backpack down by the door and goes with Bucky to the sleeping mat, laying down beside him. Bucky doesn’t bother getting undressed, simply sighs into his pillow and pulls Steve close. Steve tugs the blanket over them and presses his face against Bucky’s chest, content to listen to his heart beat. 

“Steve?” Bucky asks quietly. 

“Yeah?” Steve prompts, eyes falling shut. 

Bucky’s silent for another moment, as though gathering his thoughts. “What are you going to do if Hela really does come?”

“I’ll be doing whatever I can to help you,” Steve replies, no room for doubt. 

Bucky sighs. “Okay.”

To Steve’s ears, he sounds relieved. He wonders if he’s issued himself a death sentence, but he can’t find it in him to care. It’s the truth; he’s going to do be right there at Bucky’s side if that’s what it comes to. He hopes it doesn’t, wishes that Hela never ends up seeking Bucky out again. Wishes that he and Bucky could stay wrapped up, safe, here forever. 

He falls asleep with that fantasy in his head, dreams of sunlit days and soft mornings. Bucky’s there in those dreams, and there’s a feeling of strength in Steve’s dream-bones that makes him think of better things to come. 

Shadows hover at the edges of his dreams, waiting, watching. Sometime during the night, the darkness comes crawling back. 


	15. Like A Cry At The Final Breath That Is Drawn

_ People, Gods, Goddesses, humans, they all stand hidden in the forests, desperate to stay safe; it was supposed to be  _ safe,  _ how did she even get in? How did she get through the door? She is here to destroy, to wage war, to kill and maim and leave nothing untouched by her venomous darkness.  _

_ He was not made for this. He was not woven into existence with violence written into his future. He was created to care, to create, to love and be loved. Yet here he stands; faced by an ultimatum. Fight, raise his fists, gather energy meant for laughing and living and use it to protect those who sought out his home to be free from exactly what came to it.  _

_ Hela sneers at him from the doorway, the hawthorn bush shivering away from her. She will not wait for him to make a choice, he realises. There was never any choice in the matter.  _

_ He squares himself as she stalks towards him, predatory in a way he has never known. She holds swords in her hands; he is armed with his own fists. There was never any hope, never any chance. He takes a deep breath and raises his arms, reaches deep down inside and shuts away everything that is him, leaves his body to be a vessel for the anger that bubbles up in place of his kindness.  _

_ They meet in a clash of metal, blood and flesh.  _

_ The swords are thrown from her grasp in a move he hadn’t known he was capable of. He matches her in strength, in speed and agility. She recovers without hesitation, though he sees the surprise flash in her eyes. She is tired from breaking through the door; otherwise he would be dead by now, he knows.  _

_ Energy is drawn from his world around him; he calls for it like he’s practised. It flows through his body that is no longer  _ his,  _ and explodes from him like smog; a blackened, dirty cloud that hits Hela and drives her back. The green around them fades, leaving nothing but black and grey in its wake.  _

_ There is a flicker of agony; a knife embedded in his flesh. He cannot pause, for if he falters, then this is over. He screams, though, takes the pain he feels and it surges from deep in his gut up up and up; searing his throat and purging outwards, directly at Hela. It’s coloured like Death, leaves him weak and bewildered.  _

_ It hits her, though, drivers her to her knees. She clutches at the mottled, ugly burn at her chest, black and red blood staining her hands. Her jaw is loose with shock, eyes wide in disbelief.  _

_ He shudders at the fury that flickers to existence in her gaze. It’s directed at him, and he takes the moment to mourn that his life ends like this. He’d thought about Death before; thought it would come as the tide washing in, thought he would feed the soil with his flesh and become truly as One with his world. Now, he knows his body will rot like burned wood and will stain the place that he decays.  _

_ Hela screams, then, flies at him with swords raised.  _

_ He sends a brief prayer to whoever is listening. Surely someone is? Surely he is not alone, surely there is someone out there who will hear his plea, who will respond to him begging for his life. He clutches at the remains of himself, pulls it all together and meets her attack.  _

_ She is prepared for him, has learned his tricks. The sword that skewers him drives the breath from his body, sears him inside out. She has the audacity to laugh, but she sounds tired. He chokes, shudders, tears spill from him and sizzle on the hilt of the sword. But he tilts his head up and meets her eyes; he cannot give up. Not yet.  _

_ She glares at him, teeth bared, feral and murderous. He smiles. She frowns, as though trying to read him, but he reaches out with a shaky, desperate hand, and grabs the side of her head.  _

_ She howls, immediately trying to pull away, but his grip is sure, it is his last effort, and he cannot let it fail. He pours everything from himself into her, lets her feel everything he has felt, forces her to know the pain and the fear she has wrought; every word of despair that has been whispered, every wound she has caused, every life she has taken—everything that people have told Bucky they have suffered.  _

_ Her eyes light with despair; she yanks back, away away away from him, please please please, and he is slumping on the ground, clutching the hilt of the sword still buried in him. He holds the connection from him to her, pours more of him into her until she's on her knees in front of his crumpled body.  _

_ An animalistic howl rips itself from her, sounds like it tears her throat from the garbled way it cuts off. He forces his head to move, looks at her with bleary, life-bleeding eyes. She snarls at him, flings a knife at him.  _

_ It hits his head, but the aim is shaky, unsure for once. An awful noise spills from him, acrid and evil, and darkness swallows him up to keep.  _

_ He goes limp and fades from the waking world. His fingernails tear from where he is holding onto life, and his body is flung down down down into the darkness roiling at the base of a ravine in his mind and—  _

_ “Bucky!” _

_ That’s not right. It’s not - he knows that voice.  _

_ “Bucky? Bucky, you’re dreaming, c’mon, wake up, Bucky— _ Bucky!” Steve’s voice breaks through the feeling of complete and utter despair and Bucky jolts upright, heart pounding, staring around himself, disoriented. 

“Bucky?” Steve asks, voice soft now that Bucky’s awake. 

Bucky shudders, follows the sound, finds himself looking at Steve’s pale, worried face. “Steve,” he breathes.

Steve frowns, searching Bucky’s eyes. Bucky’s not sure what he’s looking for, and he can’t tell if Steve finds it. “You were screaming,” Steve says, soft, like he doesn’t want to scare him. 

Bucky looks away, his eyes falling shut. “I was—it was Hela,” he whispers. “I was fighting her again.” Even as he says it, the venom he’d felt coursing through his veins flares up again and he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, taking a deep breath. 

Warmth at his back; Steve’s palm rubs soothing circles into his skin and he lets the tension fall from his shoulders. Bucky leans into the touch, grateful to have the anchor. His mind won’t stop supplying the image of Hela on her knees, shaking and feral. He thinks about how he was too  _ afraid  _ to tell Thor and Steve what he’s remembered. 

He’s shivering, and Steve’s wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, and everything feels very far away.  _ Gods,  _ he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want war, he doesn’t want to feel the darkness licking at his heels with every step he takes. But he is. He’s feeling it all, and war is coming and there is nothing he can do to stop it. 

He looks at Steve, studies the sadness there, the exhaustion. A smile tugs at Steve’s lips, concerned and comforting, and Bucky’s heart tugs in his chest. Why is Steve here? He doesn’t need to be; he should have run for the hills the moment he heard Hela’s name. Scratch that, the moment he saw how damaged Bucky is. 

“Why are you here?” Bucky asks, voice wrecked, his tears drying hot and itchy on his cheeks. 

Steve frowns, cups Bucky’s cheek and wipes the remaining wetness from his eyelashes. “What do you mean?” 

Bucky swallows against a raw throat, wishes he could take the words back. Thing is, he’s selfish; he  _ wants  _ Steve here, wants him to hold him when he wakes screaming, wants to see him in the mornings, smiling over a steaming cup of tea. He wants him with all his heart, but. It’s illogical, on Steve’s part. At this point, being here is suicide. 

“I mean, why are you here? With me, now. There’s a war coming, one I might not survive. One  _ you  _ might not survive, if you stay,” Bucky whispers. 

Steve takes his hand back, holds it to his chest, hurt plain in his eyes. But the sharpness softens, and he sighs, looking away. He chews on his lip, clearly thinking over the question. “Why am I here,” he murmurs. Bucky’s heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest. Steve looks back to him, face crumpled. “Because I’m  _ happy  _ here, Buck. I’m happy with you. I feel at peace here, and I love you, and if that’s not worth fighting for, then what is?” Steve whispers.

Bucky turns that over, lets it sink in. It makes sense, of course it does, makes him feel warm all over. But. “You were happy before, weren’t you?” he asks. 

Steve huffs out a brittle laugh. “Was I?” he bites. “No, I was. But a lot of it was superficial. I was happy when I got home at the end of the day, but I was tired by then; I couldn’t enjoy it. I was happy when I got really into a piece of art I was working on, but the moment I was done it was being sold off, because I needed the money to pay rent or buy food. I was never really painting because I loved it.”

“Oh,” Bucky murmurs, looking down. “So...you’re happy when you’re here?”

“Always,” Steve says, conviction in his tone. “Even when I’m angry or sad for whatever reason, there is that underlying happiness, because I know I will be able to hug you soon, and everything will be okay. Before, there were times where I was hopeless that I would ever be happy again. Now? I know happiness will come back around, without a doubt.”

Bucky sighs, closes his eyes. “What if it doesn’t, this time?” he asks. 

Steve’s silent, and when Bucky opens his eyes, his face is so soft and full of love that Bucky feels full to the brim with it. Steve quirks a smile at him. “Then I’ll have had the happiest time of my life, and it will have been worth it. Bucky, if I don’t do this, if I don’t stay with you? Then I leave, I go and live a half-life, forever carrying the guilt that I  _ didn’t  _ stay right where you needed me.”

Bucky breathes out a heavy sigh, lifting his head and wrapping Steve up in a hug. Steve gives a startled laugh, and holds him tight, pressing his face into the crook of Bucky’s shoulder. “You’re an idiot,” Bucky tells him. 

“I’m  _ your  _ idiot,” Steve says, and it sounds suspiciously wet. 

Bucky lets him hide, lets him cry silently, simply holds him and lets his own tears wash over his face anew. How did he get this lucky? He feels as dirty as he feels cleansed; he is practically taking his love’s life, by letting him stay here. And yet, he is cleansed, because Steve loves him enough to stay, even when facing the Goddess of Death. 

Bucky’s mind floats back to the nightmare—the  _ memory.  _ It’s terrifying, knowing that the darkness hovers inside of him like a dormant plague, waiting to be given the green light to go ahead and wreck havoc. He’s not even sure what it did to Hela, only that it managed to hurt her. The consequence? Bucky loses himself. 

It was his conscious decision, to wipe his own memories. He remembers this, remembers the people he fought for coming to sit with im, heal him while he was in the darkness of his own mind. He remembers waking up and being  _ so scared  _ of himself and the darkness that he’d just. Reached inside his own head and started plucking the memories of the battle right out. 

He remembers the darkness encouraging him, whispering  _ yes yes yes take it all out  _ and he just. Hadn’t stopped. He’d kept going, until he forgot even that he’d wiped his own mind. What he doesn’t remember is what happened to all the people, but he figures that they ran once the storms started. 

He wonders what happened to Hela, wonders if she left to recover or if someone came to help her, or something else. 

“Bucky?” Steve whispers, drawing him from his thoughts again. 

Bucky pulls back so he can look at him. Steve’s face is red and puffy, but he looks calm again. Bucky takes a deep breath, lets it out slow. He basks in Steve’s calm until it becomes his own, lets his whirling mind settle. 

“I love you,” he murmurs to Steve. 

Steve’s eyes go a little wide, but he smiles, soft and happy. Bucky wants to hold this moment close to his heart forever, wants to live in it forever. He wants to pause it, live it over and over again, despite the bad that brought it on. Steve is like a shining light in the murkiness of Bucky’s mind, a golden sun in the darkest night. 

Steve reaches up and cups Bucky’s cheek, everything about him gentle. “I love you, too,” he whispers. 

Bucky reads the truth in his eyes and his heart flutters. He is loved, and he is blessed to love. “We’ll get through this, right?” he asks. 

Steve nods, expression sharpening with his determination. “We will,” he promises. “Even if Hela storms the gates right now, we’re getting through it, we’re coming out the other side  _ together.”  _

Bucky smiles at him, entertains the fantasy. “What would we do after we defeated her?”

“We’d make some tea,” Steve says, fingers trailing over Bucky’s jaw, thumb pressing over his lips. “And we’d sit right here, and I would sketch you, then we’d rest. The next day would be like any other, and the sun would be shining.” 

Bucky lets his eyes slide shut, the images dancing behind his eyelids. He purses his lips, kissing the pad of Steve’s thumb. Steve hums, brushing his thumb over Bucky’s mouth, letting it rest at the corner. His lips replace it, a little chapped and so, so sweet. Bucky smiles into the kiss, his own hands coming up to cup Steve’s face, gentle. 

Steve sighs into the kiss, his lips parting enough for Bucky to bite gently down on his lower lip, to sweep his tongue over it afterwards. It has Steve shuddering, and one of Bucky’s hands trails down Steve’s side to rest at his hip. The kiss remains soft, doesn’t get excited, doesn’t become hot with feverish desire. Bucky’s surprised, at first, but then he relaxes into it, allows himself to enjoy the love that Steve pours into it. 

When they pull back, their faces remain close, their breath mingling. Bucky rests his forehead on Steve’s, his smile something of a permanent fixture on his face right now. He feels Steve’s eyelashes brush over his skin, and he opens his eyes as well, finds himself drowning in the depths before him. 

Steve makes a happy noise, maybe a coo, maybe a sigh. “I should mention,” he says, quiet like he’s uncertain. Bucky’s grip on him tightens a little, and Steve laughs, pulling his face away and fixing Bucky with an abashed look. “I don’t really...have sex. Like, I don’t enjoy it. Or want it,” he murmurs. 

Bucky tilts his head to one side, feels his face morph into a slight frown. He’s known people who are the same, and now that he thinks about it, it kind of makes sense. Steve’s never pushed for anything more than kissing, than laying together and sharing the comfort of skin-on-skin. It makes Bucky smile, knowing that Steve’s trusted him with something that seems to be a touchy subject for him. Bucky wonders if he’s ever gotten a bad reaction, from telling someone else. 

He reaches up and brushes Steve’s hair back from his forehead, watches the worried crease between his eyebrows smooth out. “Thank you for telling me,” Bucky says, heart feeling impossibly full. “Kissing is okay?” he checks, immediately concerned that the kisses they’ve shared have only been enjoyable to him.

Steve’s eyes glimmer and Bucky relaxes again, huffing out a little laugh. Steve leans in, presses a quick kiss to his lips. “Yes,” he whispers. “Thank you for checking.”

“Of course,” Bucky replies, and pulls Steve close again. Steve goes willingly, happily, even. “Just so you know, sex has never been important to me. I’ve only been with people who I’ve grown to know, who I’ve gotten really close with. Even then, it was never something I sought out from them.”

Steve hums, kisses Bucky’s jaw from where he’s tucked under his chin. “In my world we’d call that demisexual.”

Bucky shrugs. He’s never thought to name it. It’s just how he is. 

They sit a while more, rumbled blankets around their waists, content to hold each other. Eventually, sleep tugs at Bucky’s eyelids again, and they lay down together, Bucky curled up at Steve’s chest. Steve slings an arm over him, holds him close. “Sleep. We’ll see what tomorrow brings when it comes,” he murmurs in his ear. 

“And if it brings darkness?” Bucky asks, a shiver creeping under his skin. 

Steve’s silent, like he’s taking the time to really think the question over. “We’ll deal with it,” he says finally, a note of danger in his voice.

Bucky breathes out, the shiver becoming wasps that swarm in his stomach. The sun is not far from peeking over the horizon, and he has never feared the morning more than this moment. He hides his face like he’s hiding from what’s coming, and begs sleep to let him rest. He’s going to need it. 


	16. You Whose Heart Would Sing Of Anarchy

_ It comes to them with the creaking of old hinges. It steps into the grove, looks around with old, emotionless eyes, and walks towards the hut with darkness nipping at its heels. It finds them sleeping soundly, watches them through the window. The rising sun frames it’s shoulders. It casts no shadow, disturbs no singing birds. It’s as if it’s not really there; a mirage, a premonition.  _

_ It knocks on the door.  _

Steve sits bolt upright on the sleeping mat, Bucky making a noise of protest as he’s jostled. Steve presses a hand to his chest, finds his heart beating hard and fast. His breath comes in quick pants, his eyes are wide and go to the window. There is nothing and no one there. 

A hand at his arm—he looks down at Bucky, who lays against the blankets with bed-rumpled hair and pillow creases on his cheek. The morning sun casts dancing fractals over the wall behind him, and a frown forms on his face, his silver eyes dark with concern. Steve looks back to the window, trying to make sense of the feeling he’d just had. 

“Steve?” Bucky asks, voice thick with sleep. 

Steve shakes his head, still looking out the window. “I—” he cuts himself off, clears his throat, gathers his thoughts. “It felt like someone was here,” he murmurs. 

“Someone bad?” Bucky prompts, sitting up behind him and resting a hand at Steve’s hip. 

Steve lets the touch ground him as he shakes his head slowly, unsure of the gesture. “I don’t know. It didn’t feel like they wanted anything, but they felt— _ heavy.  _ Like…”  _ a premonition,  _ his brain supplies. He bites at his lip. “Like a warning.” 

Bucky makes a small sound, and when Steve turns to him, his face is soft. “Your mind trying to process what might be coming?” he suggests quietly. 

Steve shrugs one shoulder and looks down at the blankets wrapped around his waist. He feels cold, suddenly, and reaches for his jersey. “I don’t know,” is all he can manage. 

They get up to make tea. Bucky’s getting the fire going and Steve wanders outside to pick some lemon balm, his head still turning over what he’d felt. It had been so real, almost...well. Almost like the very world around him had been trying to tell him something. Like it had been  _ communicating  _ with him, warning him, or even just feeding off his own fears and mirroring them back at him. 

He huffs out a breath, gently picking at the lemon balm. He tries to focus on that, counting the leaves, silently thanking the plant for being able to use it. It calms him, and he gets a feeling of gratitude from somewhere. It almost feels like an outside source, and he tries to examine it, but it skitters away before he can get too close. He brushes it off as him being thankful to the plant. 

When he returns to the hut, strong-smelling lemon balm in hand, Bucky’s already got water starting to boil on the fire. Steve passes through the doorway, walks over to him and drops the leaves into the waiting cups. Bucky smiles up at him from where he’s sitting on the sleeping mat. 

“Does your world ever...talk to you?” Steve asks, mind flashing back to the times he’s seen Bucky linger with a plant for a moment, concentration written into the lines on his face, like he’s listening. 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I mean, yeah, in a way,” he says, setting aside Steve’s sketchbook he’d been flipping through. “My world is me, so it mirrors what I am feeling. You’ve seen that,” he adds quietly. 

Steve frowns, turning away to look back down at the lemon balm. “Yeah, but has it ever given you, I don’t know, an  _ emotion,  _ or something? Like a certain plant. Like it’s sentient,” he tries again, resolutely not looking at Bucky. 

Bucky’s quiet for a moment and Steve can almost hear the gears ticking over in his head. “Steve,” he says finally, tone a little dark, like he’s worried. “What’s brought this on?” 

Steve swallows against a dry throat, spinning around and leaning back on the counter, propping himself up on his arms. “Would you call me crazy if I said your lemon balm thanked me for picking it carefully?” he asks quietly, nerves buzzing in his stomach, which—this is  _ Bucky,  _ he isn’t going to judge. But with everything going on, Steve can’t help but think that maybe he might be losing his mind a little bit. 

“You’re not crazy,” Bucky says, soft. 

Steve narrows his eyes, arms coming to wrap around his middle. He looks down at the floor, almost not wanting to hear what comes next. “Then why can I... _ feel  _ what your plants are feeling, Bucky?” he whispers. 

He can hear Bucky standing, can hear the sheets falling from around his waist and onto the floor. He has to strain his ears to hear Bucky’s feet moving across the floorboards, shuts his eyes the moment they appear in his vision. He feels Bucky’s hands come up to cup his elbows and he shivers at the touch, unable to pull away from it. He doesn’t want to, not really, but if this is what he thinks it is…

“My world is accepting you,” Bucky says quietly, swallowing as though he himself is nervous. “It’s...it’s happened before. A human has come here, and my world has accepted them, and after a time...they were changed. They were no longer human, but more like me.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut harder, as though he can black the words out. He’s not exactly had time to think about what would happen if he stayed here, if he pursued a life with Bucky. He’s only known that he’s  _ wanted  _ to. He hasn’t thought about consequences. He’s touched briefly on their different lifespans, sure, but if what Bucky’s saying is true, and Steve’s becoming less and less human, well. Maybe that won’t be a problem.

“What happened to that person?” Steve asks, steering away from the way his mind is slowly starting to freak out. 

Bucky’s hand comes up to glide fingers over Steve’s jaw, tilting his head up. Steve blinks open his eyes, his jaw working. Bucky looks concerned, and a little afraid. Steve’s heart hurts and he wants to take it all back but he’s freaking out a little bit, okay? He’s not had time to  _ think.  _ There’s so much going on. He’s never paid much attention to magic, it’s just always been there and now? Now he’s so thoroughly apart of it it’s changing him bit by bit. 

“They’re still alive,” Bucky says, a little stilted, like he’s holding something important back. “They’re definitely...not human, anymore.” A pause. neither of them say anything. Steve's doing calculations in his head. “Steve?” 

“The door has been open for under a week,” Steve murmurs. “You’ve been outside your world twice. Both of those times you were with me. How do you know they’re still alive?” It’s not important, it’s really not, but he has this  _ feeling  _ that the answer is not something he’s gonna want to hear all the same. 

Bucky’s throat bobs as he swallows and his eyes flit away, before coming back to meet Steve’s steadily. “It’s not my place to say,” he whispers, looking as though he thoroughly regrets it. 

“It’s someone I know, isn’t it?” Steve asks, before shaking his head. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter, the truth will come out when it matters,” he bites, feeling sick and off-balance. No matter what the answer is, it’s not going to change his current situation. 

Bucky looks regretful, and he glances down at their feet before back up again. The slow sweetness of the previous night has evaporated. Steve just feels tense, now, and Bucky’s fingers are digging into his elbows slightly. “I didn’t know,” Bucky reveals, voice small. “Not before yesterday. I didn’t know this could happen. Or I didn’t remember, but I’m sorry, I would have mentioned—”

“Bucky,” Steve cuts him off, immediately wincing at himself as he does it. “It’s fine. It’s fine,” he pauses, trying to gather rapidly deteriorating thoughts. “It’s just...are you saying that if I stay here, in your world with you, that I’ll become...like you? Magic? Non-human? ...Immortal?” his voice shakes on the last word and he almost hates himself for it. 

Bucky blinks big, silver doe-eyes at him and sucks in a breath, his face creased with something akin to despair. “I…” he trails off, searching Steve’s eyes, his frown deepening. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, that’s what will happen.” 

Steve lets out a shaky breath and hangs his head again, studying the floor. It’s not—he’s not  _ afraid  _ of that, he  _ wants  _ to spend his life with Bucky, it’s just...he’s not ever thought about having magic. Or being able to talk to plants. Or being anything other than human with a normal lifespan, a normal job and normal human issues. And here he is, in the middle of a potential century-old war, slowly becoming less and less human by the day. 

“Steve?” Bucky asks, the word almost a squeak. 

Steve looks up again, biting at his lip. He thinks of the darkness, the looming war, the threat of Hela. He thinks of the tea waiting to be made, the softness of Bucky’s eyes every time he says  _ I love you,  _ the feeling of the sun on his shoulders. He thinks of Thor, the weight he carries on his shoulders, the fear in his good eye as he talked of the battles waged. He thinks of Nat, fear on her face when she heard Hela’s name, the anger in her voice when she’d found out how much shit he’d gotten himself in. 

He thinks of himself saying  _ you always have a choice.  _

“Okay,” he breathes, looking up. “Okay.”

Bucky’s face, so close to heartbreak, contorts as he stares at Steve like a man dying of thirst. “Okay?” he asks. “Please, Steve, what do you mean?”

Steve breathes out a long, low sigh and looks away from the intensity of Bucky’s gaze. He’d been so quick to fall in love with this not-man, and that love has done nothing to grow ever since. “I mean, okay. If that’s what’s gonna happen, then, okay. I’ll deal with it.” His voice sounds like it isn’t his; like it’s coming from somewhere far away. 

Bucky’s hand comes up to cup his face. He’s shaking. He’d been scared, Steve realises; so scared that he’d lose Steve. “Oh,” Bucky breathes, and Steve sees that he’d gone pale, too; colour is returning to his face. “ _ We’ll _ deal with it,” Bucky corrects, voice gaining back it’s composure. 

Steve huffs out a half-laugh and leans into his touch, closing his eyes again. He feels weak, like something has been drained out of him. Maybe he’s in shock. “I think I need some time, though. To process,” he whispers, despite the fact that he has no idea how much time they’ll realistically have. 

Bucky opens his mouth to reply, but the kettle starts whistling and he steps away to silence it. Steve feels cold the moment he’s gone, and knows he’s made the right choice to deal with thi and not throw it all away. Bucky brings it over to the counter. He looks solemn, his shoulders dropping, but understanding is written on his face. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Do you want tea first, or do you want to go?” 

Steve glances at the door to the hut, remembering the darkness he’d felt creeping by just that morning. He lifts a hand to press against his chest. He’s not about to say no to tea, not when he knows it will calm him down enough to be able to think clearer. “I’ll stay for tea,” he replies, the words so quiet he barely hears them. 

Relief flitters over Bucky’s face and he smiles, but it’s tight, like he’s worried Steve will run. He pours the water silently, though, and the smell of lemon balm fills the air. Steve closes his eyes to appreciate it fully, the muscles in his jaw relaxing. A warm cup is pressed into his hands and he cradles it, lifting it to his face to inhale the steam. 

He’s aware of Bucky moving away, like he knows Steve needs a moment, and Steve wants to follow him but it’s like his limbs are frozen. He stays where he is against the counter, taking a tentative sip of the tea, just barely avoiding burning his tongue. He blows cool air over it, focusing only on the action and trying to empty his mind. 

It doesn’t work. He thinks back to the fact that he’s not the only person who’s had this happen to them; not the only human accepted by Bucky and his world. Not the only person who’s been born without magic and has had it grow inside them. He thinks back to the timeline, to the fact that Bucky found out only yesterday that this could happen; that staying here could turn a human to something else. 

He takes another sip. Thinks back to the people they’d met yesterday. Thinks back to the people they’d talked to, the people  _ Bucky  _ had talked to. He almost doesn’t want to follow the train of thought but it’s tugging him along, showing him the brief surprise on Bucky’s face when he’d met Nat. The way he’d sunk into his head right after, how he’d said he’d remembered something. 

Steve lets out an unsteady breath and opens his eyes. 

Bucky is sitting against the wall again, on the sleeping mat, blatantly watching Steve with that frown on his face again. Steve wants to hug him, wants to pull him in close and press his lips to that crease between his eyebrows and tell him everything will be okay. He doesn’t, though. He sips his tea once more, then sets it down on the counter. 

“I’ll see you later, okay? I’ll come back tonight,” he promises. 

Bucky swallows, face falling but he quickly composes himself. “Alright,” he says, standing up again, setting his cup aside. “Are you...you’re definitely coming back?” His voice has gone small again. 

Steve wants to stay, wants to wipe away that look, wants to say that he’ll stay. He can’t. He’s only human—for now—and he needs time away to  _ think.  _ “Definitely. Bucky, I love you, okay? That hasn’t changed,” he’s saying, stepping forwards and reaching out. 

Bucky comes to him without hesitation, falling into his arms. He buries his face in the crook of Steve’s neck and lets out a shaky breath. “I love you too,” he murmurs, sounding suspiciously wet. 

Steve pulls back and his heart aches at the way Bucky holds on for a moment longer, before letting him go. “I’m serious, Bucky,” Steve says, looking him in the eye, trying for strong when all he feels is unsure and off-balance. But he’s sure of this. “I’m coming back. Don’t worry, I swear,” he whispers, hand coming up to cup Bucky’s face, a mirror of their position from before. 

Bucky leans into the touch just the way Steve had, eyes fluttering shut. He manages a shaky smile. “Okay. I trust you. I’m sorry,” he murmurs. 

“Don’t be,” Steve says, and presses the lightest of kisses to Bucky’s lips. Bucky leans in as though to chase the kiss, but seems to think better of it, and instead stands up straight again, blinking down at Steve. 

“Can I walk you out?” Bucky asks, hands hovering at Steve’s hips like he doesn’t want to let him go. 

Steve nods, and drops his hand from Bucky’s face to intertwine their fingers. “Yeah,” he breathes, and leads Bucky out of the hut. 

The sun is dim, grey clouds rolling across the sky. Steve shivers, squeezing Bucky’s hand as they walk across the grass. The happiness from the other morning is nowhere to be seen. In its place is a feeling of waiting, a feeling that something lingers on the horizon, waiting to strike. Steve wants to shoo it away, wants to take Bucky to the sea and wash away everything they’ve just talked about.

But then there would be no progress. This would hover between them, unsolved, like bees buzzing in their minds until it all came to a head. It would surely explode. Better to say things that are meant than to say things horrid in the heat of the moment later on. No, Steve needs time to process this. He knows he’s doing the right thing. He knows Bucky knows it too. 

They reach the door and Steve hesitates, pulling Bucky close to him, pressing his lips together and looking up at him. “I love you, okay?” he says, desperate that Bucky knows this. 

Bucky nods, eyes suspiciously shiny. A cool wind rolls through the grove and Steve hunches his shoulders against it. “I know,” Bucky murmurs, something intense on his face that Steve can’t quite read. “Just as I love you.” 

Steve lets out a heavy breath and slips his hand from Bucky’s. He feels empty the moment they’re not touching. It’s ridiculous, he tells himself. He’ll be back tonight. He’ll be able to face Bucky and tell him exactly how he feels, because he will have processed it all, and he will have come to terms with what commitment with Bucky means. 

“I’ll see you later,” Steve whispers, reaching up on tiptoes to brush a kiss over Bucky’s cheek. 

Bucky’s hands come up to hover at Steve’s hips like he’s about to pull him into a hug, but then they swing back to his own sides like pendulums. “See you,” he echoes.

Steve finds the door handle without looking for it and opens the door. Brooklyn heat rushes in and it’s such a contrast from the coolness of the grove that he shivers. He steps outside, eyes never leaving Bucky’s. He lifts his hand in a little wave, and lets the door swing shut. 

As it huffs closed, all Steve can think about is the look on Bucky’s face; like he’d lost something precious. Steve wants to go back and apologise, but instead he turns and begins the walk to his and Nat’s apartment, hoping she’s there. The further away he gets from Bucky’s world, the hollower his stomach feels. 


	17. And With Trepidation in Hand, We March Onwards

Steve almost turns around more than once. It’s like there’s an invisible string tying him to Bucky, calling him back, begging him not to take another step. Maybe that’s why he keeps going. It terrifies him, just a little, the connection they have had from the very beginning. While he loves it, feels safe and happy and warm with it, it’s nothing he’s ever experienced before. 

And now? It’s not just a connection. Loving Bucky isn’t like loving someone human. Loving Bucky means taking on Bucky’s magic, taking on his incredibly long lifespan, taking on his inhumanness. It’s almost funny; Steve had been ready to run into battle holding Bucky’s hands, he hadn’t balked when Bucky’s baggage had made itself apparent, he hadn’t turned away when Thor had explained the magnitude of this looming war. 

But he’s stumbling over the fact that loving Bucky means being something he’s always been indifferent to. Magic. 

He thinks back to when Thor mentioned a strangeness on him— _ strange energy,  _ he’d said. Steve shudders. He’s already changing. As he walks, head down, hands in his pockets, he’s aware of a certain lightness to his body, like his usual aches and pains are slowly being lifted. He hasn’t used his inhaler in days. 

He takes a deep breath, feels the air fill his lungs and pushes his shoulders back without faltering. As soon as he does it he lets the breath out, feeling light-headed for an entirely separate reason to the breathing. Gods, he’s changing. Whether he stays with Bucky or not he’s changing. And isn’t that a silly thought? Of course he’s staying. He just needs time to  _ process.  _

If he’s right and Nat’s the person who was once human and lived in Bucky’s world, then the whole changing from human to magical is permanent. It means that the half-human half-whatever he is right now is permanent, and it’s not going away, and it means—well. It means he might have a chance in this fight coming up. He might be able to  _ really _ help. 

He turns the corner onto his street and picks up the pace, feeling oddly hurried in his inner turmoil. He slows when he gets there, pauses at the foot of the stairs. That black cat is sitting at the top step, tail curled over it’s paws, green eyes wide and staring. Steve stares back, something electric in the air between them, before the cat narrows its eyes and stands, stalking away, tail giving a lash in Steve’s direction. 

Steve swallows, walking up the steps and watching the cat disappear around a corner, down an alley. 

Magic has always been around him, and he’s always been indifferent to it. Now, he himself is laced with that very magic, has it pumping around his veins. His best friend is the same. The cat that hangs around his apartment building is far from normal. His boss is the Norse God of Thunder. His love, his heart, is the epitome of magic, a centre of it, every cell in his body is singing with it. 

Steve, after living his life avoiding the drama that magic always seems to bring, after spending years staying informed but uninvolved, has somehow weaved and sown the threads of his life with the great tapestry that is magic itself. 

Blowing out a heavy breath, he takes the stairs up to his apartment, trying to gain a level head. His mind is reeling, going over the same facts again and again, rendering him nothing but a speechless array of facial expressions as he processes. There’s guilt boiling hot and heavy in his gut, too, a feeling of regret and unease at leaving Bucky. 

He sighs and focuses on getting his key out when he reaches the door, unlocking it with trepidation. It swings opens like a guillotine, sharp and damning, and Nat is sitting at the table with coffee in her hand and a plate of toast and eggs in front of her. Breakfast. Normal. Her expression is as blank as it is revealing, and she raises an eyebrow as Steve closes the door behind him. 

“Hey, Nat,” he greets, and he sounds tired even to his own ears. 

Nat narrows her eyes, and the glint behind them tells Steve she knows exactly what he’s going to ask her about. “There’s more coffee in the pot,” she offers, leaning back in her chair and bringing her own to her lips. 

“Thanks,” Steve says, setting his backpack down by the door and walking over to the kitchen. He grabs a cup and pours the coffee slow, words turning over in his head. How does one start a conversation that they’ve been avoiding for years?

Eventually, Nat sighs and starts it for him. “Yes, I’m not entirely human. But you already knew that,” she says, quiet and unreadable. 

Steve turns, hiding his face in the cup of coffee, breathing in the steam. He takes a moment to ready what he’s about to say, and wanders over to settle down in the chair across from her. “I did,” he murmurs. “But I never asked you about it.”

“And you’re going to now?” she guesses, cutting up a bite of food, popping it in her mouth, eyes trained on Steve likes she’s reading his every thought. 

Steve lifts one shoulder in a shrug and sips his coffee. “I’m changing,” is all he says, setting the cup down like it marks the finality of that statement. 

“I know. I could sense it the moment you came back from Bucky’s world,” she says quietly, glancing away for a moment, something sad passing over her face. Her shoulders slump, and the mask of blankness fades away. 

Steve’s heart clenches at the fear written there. “Nat…”

She shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. I never thought I could hide forever. Of course, I could always run, but then what kind of a friend would I be?” she sighs. “Ask away.”

And Steve hesitates, biting at his lip. He sips at his coffee, stalling, because they’ve always had such an easy friendship, so close they could be siblings, but Nat has always had her secrets. Them being revealed has already shifted the dynamic. She is flayed bare, arms wide, her heart out for him to see. He almost wants to shake his head, tell her no, keep your secrets, they are who you are. 

But she’s trying to let him see who she is. So he sets his coffee down again and lets his questions spill forth. “What...what does it mean? To be accepted by Bucky’s world? To become...magic,” he asks, the words leaving a strange taste in his mouth. Like fear, yet like freedom. He is not alone in this, like Nat was. He has someone to turn to, someone who has done it all before him. 

Nat lets out a breath, her eyebrows furrowing as she thinks that over. “Well,” she says, cradling her coffee in her hands. “It’s like...gaining an extra sense,” she muses. “You become suddenly aware of so much more around you; the movement in the grass, the shaking of the trees, the vibrations deep down in the Earth. I think, because it was Bucky’s magic that I took on, I just became apart of the Earth, like I have roots deep down into it.” She lets out a breath, a smile softening the expression on her face. 

Steve chews that over. “Isn’t that...loud?” he asks. 

Nat laughs. “Yeah. The Earth is busy. You could hardly believe how insignificant humans are in comparison to the amount of plants there are, even just in  _ Brooklyn.”  _ She shakes her head, her smile growing. “Humans, magical beings, we are secondary to the Earth. Becoming magic definitely helped me appreciate that,” she says quietly. 

Steve hums, wondering how he’s never had these conversations with Nat before. Even if she’s been hiding being magic, how has he never noticed how close she is to the Earth? It’s like she’s two people in one body, he realises.  

He shakes that thought away, leaving it to think about later. “What about physically?” he asks, even though he thinks he might already know the answer to that one. He can  _ feel _ that part of him changing bit by bit, now that he’s aware of it. 

Nat just gives him a look, one that says all that needs to be said, like she knows exactly what he’s thinking. There’s that smile on her face again, the one that says she’s not quite happy about all of this, but she knows she can’t stop it. “Just because you can feel your health problems slipping away doesn’t mean you should go running headfirst into a war, Steve,” she says, danger in her tone. 

Steve raises an eyebrow. “And you think that that’s gonna stop me from doing exactly that?” he asks, slightly shocked. “You know me better than that.” Of  _ course _ he’s gonna use anything he can to help. 

Nat sighs. “I used my abilities to stick to the shadows, to hide from people that wanted me dead until they were all gone. There is no one left to hunt me. You? You’re going to take something good and throw it at an unbeatable force,” she tells him, voice deadly serious. 

“Why would I hide?” Steve challenges. “Bucky is everything to me. There is no other option.”

Nat scowls. “Hela isn’t someone who will care about that, Steve. You’re going to die at her hand if you face her.”

“Oh, so you know about her coming back?” he snipes, frustration lacing his tone. 

“Of course I do! Every magical being on Earth does. We can  _ feel  _ it. It’s like a storm on the horizon, rolling closer every day. Hela is one of the Old Gods, the first Gods. The war that she’s bringing is hardly a war; it’s a predetermined lost battle.”

Steve gapes at her, unable to believe what he’s hearing. “Are you serious?” he asks, staring at her deadly serious face. “Nat, you’ve got to be joking. You’re honestly going to hide in the face of this? You’re just gonna roll over and  _ let _ her win?”

Nat clenches her jaw, fury flashing in her eyes. “It’s not about  _ letting  _ her win, Steve. It’s about staying alive. I’ve made it this far by hiding.”

Steve shakes his head. “Has it been worth it?” he asks, bitterness clouding his judgement. 

“Yes! I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“But what for?” Steve wonders out loud, the questions quiet in the face of their raised voices just a moment before. 

Nat slumps back in her seat like she’s been shot, eyes going wide. Hurt crosses her face before she shuts it away behind a thick mask. “How dare you,” she hisses. “For  _ myself.  _ I’m all I’ve got, in the end. I’ve done enough fighting to last me a lifetime, and I’m  _ done.  _ I won’t fight someone else's war.”

“But it’s not someone else's,” Steve insists, sadness clenching his heart at the thought that after years of friendship Nat still sees herself as alone in this world. “Hela’s coming to finish Ragnarok. The end of the world. You think she’ll stop with just Bucky’s world? What’s stopping her from laying waste to Earth, too?” 

Nat looks away, food and coffee forgotten. “What, so  _ presuming  _ you win the first fight, you’re expecting to sell your soul to protecting a world that doesn’t even know you exist?”

“A minute ago, you were telling me about how insignificant humans are to Earth. Maybe I don’t care about the  _ world _ , Nat, but there are aspects of it that I would give my life for. If you’re so dead set on staying alive, there must be something that you love about it, too,” he challenges. 

Nat falls silent, but her face is a mess of thought. Eventually, when the silence drags on for too long, Steve drains his coffee and stands up. His whole body feels like a live wire, set to blow. He knows it’s got something to do with Bucky, knows that the urge to be with him is growing for a reason. 

He doesn’t regret taking the time to process, to take a step back and look at the situation, because now he’s more sure than ever that this is what he wants. Whatever he’s becoming, he is Steve first and foremost. He wants to be at Bucky’s side, and if that means facing a goddamn Goddess of Death then so be it. This is his choice. This is his fight. 

He looks at Nat one more time as he heads towards the door. She’s sitting at the table, face blank, hands in her lap. Despite how empty her face is, he can practically see the gears ticking over in her head. He gathers up his backpack and leaves the apartment, shutting the door behind him. 

The lock clicking into place sounds like finality.

As he walks outside, he sees the black cat sitting at the steps again. It’s staring up at the sky, fur bristling at its neck. Steve follows it’s gaze, sees the rolling black clouds growing closer. What had Nat said?  _ It’s like a storm on the horizon, rolling closer every day.  _ Steve swallows, a shiver taking over him. 

The urge to get to Bucky becomes overwhelming, suddenly, and Steve moves without thinking. All he knows is that he has to get back through the door, and  _ soon. _ If he doesn’t...he’s not sure why, but he feels like all his worst nightmares could come true. So he picks up the pace, his usually weak lungs keeping up with him as he runs. 

Thunder bellows over the horizon and lightning carves jagged lines through the sky. 

Just as the rain begins to fall, Steve realises what this is. Hela wasn’t on her way, she was  _ here.  _


	18. I Don't Know How You House The Sin

As the door huffs shut behind Steve, Bucky finds himself staring at it for a long time. His stomach is hollow, as though Steve has taken all his innards with him. The thought is gruesome, but accurate, and Bucky ducks his head to stare down at his feet. Toes curling against the grass, he presses his lips together and takes a breath to try and steady himself. 

Steve’s coming back. He  _ is,  _ and Bucky knows that, but his heart is beating in his chest like it’s got a race to win, and he feels anything but reassured. He wants Steve at his side, aches to be near him, to be in his presence. He feels like a puppet with his strings cut, swaying slightly, not sure what he’s supposed to do. 

_ Time,  _ Steve had said.  _ Time to process.  _ And, okay, that makes sense. It  _ does,  _ and Bucky’s feelings on the matter are irrational; and yet he’s feeling them anyway. So he embraces them, tells himself that no matter what he’s feeling Steve  _ is  _ coming back, and all Bucky has to do is wait. He’d waited a hundred years, before, what’s another day? 

Letting out a shuddering breath, Bucky finally turns away from the door nestled in the hawthorn and steps lightly, walking out of the grove and through the orchard. He’s drawn to the beach, finds himself sitting on the sand without really remembering walking there. He’s staring out to sea, the salty breeze coming off the waves stinging his cheeks. 

It’s cold, he realises. Cold enough that gooseflesh crawls over his arms, makes him want to pull a blanket around himself. Instead, he brings his knees to his chest and curls his arms around them, sits his chin on them. He’s feeling sorry for himself, sure, but he’s processing, too. A lot has happened, really, in the past week. The door had opened. Steve had come to him. He’d gained his memories back. And now there is a battle to be fought. 

And—Hela. The battle is coming, whispering its warnings on the breeze and singing with the seafoam, sending trickles of icy fear down Bucky’s spine. He can feel the looming fight like he can feel the cold, and it wraps around him like a snake, digging its fangs into his skin and holding tight, venomous despair taking root in his veins. 

He does not know the outcome of the battle. He can’t be  _ sure.  _ It’s a constant worry, presses down on his chest like gravity has started weighing a little more. He can hardly breath thinking about it. And Steve had said—Steve wants to  _ fight.  _ He wants to stand at Bucky’s side and bare his teeth in the face of one of the most powerful Goddesses, defiant and challenging. It scares Bucky to no end just imagining it. 

But really, who is he to stop him? He wishes he could wrap Steve up in safety and warmth and hide him away from anything bad, anything that’s not sunshine and rose tinted glasses, but he can’t. Steve wants to stand with  _ him,  _ wants to fight beside him. In Steve’s place, it’s exactly what Bucky would want, and he has to admit that even if he doesn’t like it. 

He lets out a slow sigh. The wind echoes the sentiment, brushing his hair back from his face like a caress. He lifts his head from his knees and looks up at the sky like it will answer his questions. He hates this waiting, hates that Hela is coming but they don’t know when, they don’t know how strong she is, they don’t know if they even have a  _ chance.  _

Bucky had won the last battle by a fluke. Hela knows that trick now, and she’ll be ready for it. He won’t catch her off guard like that again. Thor is on their side, this time, which bodes well. It gives Bucky hope, to have him on their side. 

One thing Bucky cannot bear to even think about is how Steve will stand against her. He cannot fathom losing Steve, cannot even consider it. He refuses to. 

Blinking up at the grey clouds, he wonders how long he will have to wait to find out the answers he seeks. 

And just as the thought crosses his mind, entwined heavily with the feeling of dread, the door in the grove creaks open. Bucky’s on his feet in seconds, the groaning of old wood and unkempt hinges singing in his ears like the prologue to war drums. There’s a roiling in his stomach, like a thousand butterflies are fighting for room, and he feels  _ sick  _ with it, presses a hand to his abdomen even as he gathers his strength and readies himself. 

But it’s not Hela. The grey clouds, pregnant with storm, do not break. The wind kicks up sand against Bucky’s shins but it does not tear trees from the ground. Bucky himself breathes easy, finds himself near running to meet whoever is at the door. He wants to think it’s Steve, but his world knows Steve by now; Bucky knows the moment he opened the door that it is him.

As it is, his world murmurs the echoes of lightning, of sparks racing through a bloodstream, and Bucky relaxes, slows his pace to a jog. Thor is here, and while it can only mean Hela is close, Bucky feels safer knowing Thor will be here in the inevitable battle ensues. 

Disappointment sticks in his throat like tar that it’s not Steve. 

Still, he holds his composure together and comes to a stop at the pond. The fish are circling near the surface, agitated, like they know what’s coming. “Thor,” Bucky greets, meeting his asymmetrical gaze. 

Thor dips his head. In hand he carries an axe, one that sings with power, and Bucky shivers at the very sight of it. It is a weapon of war, and Bucky’s world has only ever seen such a thing once before. They are not meant to ever be needed here. “No Steve?” Thor asks, coming over to rest a hand on Bucky’s shoulder; a gesture of comfort. 

Bucky lets himself lean into it and shakes his head. The reminder of why Steve had left sends a bolt of sadness through him. “He’ll be back later,” he says quietly. 

Thor presses his lips together. “Perhaps it would be best if he stayed out of this,” he murmurs, hand dropping back to his side. 

Bucky gives a shrug. “Maybe, but he won’t.” The very idea of trying again to convince Steve to stay out of this, to protect himself, to stay  _ safe _ when others were putting their lives on the line is ludicrous. However much Bucky wants to protect Steve, there is a part of him that is selfishly grateful to have him at his side. 

Thor snorts, agreeing without words. As they walk towards Bucky’s hut, Thor looks around, taking in all the changes that have happened since he was here last. Bucky can barely remember it; echoes of a very old memory. Thor looks young, in his memories. Arrogant, confident, kind. It’s a starting difference to have known him then and to know him now, without seeing the transition. 

“Hela is nearly upon us,” Thor says, almost off-hand. The calm in his tone is folly; Bucky can feel the nervous energy radiating from him. 

Bucky glances at him, stepping carefully around a patch of comfrey. “I know,” he replies. “I can feel her drawing closer.” He wonders if Thor is bitter about being called to arms again. 

Thor looks up to the sky, observes the darkness there, the heaviness in the air. “I suppose you can,” he sighs. “Are you ready for this?” 

Bucky shakes his head, darkly amused by the question. “No. No, but it’s happening anyway, so I have to be prepared. It’s not just about my world. If she wins this battle, she’ll move onto another. We can’t let that happen.”

Thor raises an eyebrow as they reach Bucky’s hut. “You have a plan, then?” 

“I have an...idea,” Bucky admits, sitting down on the steps.  

Thor settles down beside him, watching the skies. Watching Hela’s approach. “Care to share?” 

Bucky huffs. “It’s not my best idea, but I think it will work.” And he proceeds to tell him, talking in a low voice, not wanting even the trees to overhear. He watches Thor’s expression slide through confusion, realisation, apprehension, concern and, finally, resignation. He waits for Thor’s nod before he can even begin to process the fact that this is the plan he’s going with. 

It’s not—it’s not  _ smart,  _ maybe, but it’s near foolproof in the sense that it will see them defeating Hela. In the sense of everyone making it out alive, well. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made. 


	19. Interlude

_ His land has never suffered a winter. He knows, with a surety that comes from deep within, that should his world ever fall under winter’s icy rein, it would be for no good reason. His world flourishes under the sun, never changes season, never seems to need the rest winter and autumn bring to Earth. His world is only summer, bright and lively, heady and rich. Always at its fullest, always warm and soothing.  _

_ His land has never suffered a winter. He knows that it’s possible; anything is, here. His lifeblood flows through the roots of trees as it does his veins. His tears are the dewdrops on the early-morning, his hair is the willow tree that dips its leaves in the pond and his breath is the wind that stirs the grass. As such, his emotion reflects with the weather.  _

_ His land has never suffered a winter, but it has suffered torrential rain. It has suffered storms never seen on Earth, it has bounced back from hail and tornadoes and fire. All of these things were caused by him, by his emotions that bubble up and take over. He is angry; the wind howls. He is terrified; thunder screams from the skies. He is sad; rain pours over the land. He is happy, content, at peace; summer shines on.  _

_ His land has never suffered a winter, but the possibility is there. He does not know what circumstance would bring about the season, but whenever he thinks about it, he shivers. There is a looming fear that sits deep in his bones; winter does not mean what it does on Earth. Here, it means destruction, it means disaster, it means death.  _

_ His land has never suffered a winter. Whenever he remembers this, he prays it never does.  _


	20. If You've Got Pain In Your Heart, Why Don't You Share It With Me

Steve finds him overlooking the deer. The storm had closed in on Earth’s skies just as he’d stepped through the door. Bucky’s world is no better; it’s not raining yet, but the very air is heavy and murmurs the warning of something coming. The grass sways with a breeze that keens its despair, the waves lap at the sand like they’re trying to drag them to safety. The deer have taken shelter among the trees, staring out at them, wondering why they’ve not hidden, too.

Thor had been waiting at the door, a giant axe in hand. Steve had immediately been awash with fear, but Thor had placed a hand on his shoulder and shaken his head. Pointed out towards the sea. Steve had left him standing guard, shaken to the core. Thor’s expression had been one of pity, like he was mourning something that hadn’t happened yet. 

So Steve had walked across the shore and up the hill, drawn by an unknown force, knowing exactly where Bucky was. He’d had half a mind to ask the plants, but he knows they would have answered, and he’s not quite ready for that yet. 

Bucky had been sitting on top of the hill, chin on his knees, staring out at the deer. 

They’ve been here for half an hour. Neither have spoke. Steve sits shoulder-to-shoulder with him, heart in his throat, because the world is slowly growing darker as more and more clouds gather. The air is electric; Thor’s anxiety picking up and flowing through the world like lightning. Through the dim light, the deer's eyes seem to glow accusingly. 

Steve takes a deep breath, drops his head to Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky leans his head on top of Steve’s, gentle. Steve’s waiting for Bucky to say something, anything, wants to hear him reassure him that everything will be alright, that he has a plan, that the world will be fine. And maybe that’s why Bucky’s not talking; because he cannot say any of that and have it be true. 

Steve can feel the world around him like never before. It’s as nervous as him, the very grass shivering in the growing cold. This is the first time Steve hasn't felt safe here. Before, no matter what, every shake of a leaf, every rolling cloud, every drop of rain and ray of sun had been wholly  _ Bucky.  _

But now? The storm is anything but the man he loves. 

He lets out an unsteady sigh and tilts his head a little. Bucky makes an inquiring noise and Steve—he needs to know. “What’s going to happen?” he asks, quiet. 

But Bucky just shakes his head, looks down at his hands. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, and the words are like a stab to the chest because Steve gets the feeling Bucky is  _ lying  _ to him. 

“Bucky,” he murmurs, and that gets his attention, gets him to meet his gaze. “What’s going to happen?” he asks again, firmer. 

Bucky makes a face like he’s in pain and Steve can feel the echo of it; the sharp twist his heart does, the uncomfortable flip of his stomach. Bucky looks away like he can’t bear to say it while he’s facing Steve, and that has Steve’s veins flooding with dread. “I don’t  _ know,”  _ Bucky repeats, and closes his eyes. 

Before Steve can press the matter, a bolt of lightning streaks across the sky and Steve can’t help but flinch. He finds himself searching for Bucky’s hand, pulls him in close until he’s pressed to Bucky’s chest. Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat like he’s been punched, and Steve lets out a shaky breath. 

“Bucky,” Steve whispers, and he can barely hear himself over the sound of thunder rumbling in the distance. 

“Yeah, Steve?” Bucky asks, casual, like they’re not sat waiting for Hela to arrive. For Death to arrive. 

Steve buries his face in the crook of Bucky’s neck and breathes him in. “Please tell me you’re not going to do anything stupid?” he asks. 

Bucky huffs out a laugh, but the noise is strained and Steve’s heart clenches. “I’m not doing anything stupid. I’m doing what needs to be done,” he whispers, and Steve has to fight to hear each word. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s not going to be something stupid,” Steve argues, pulling back enough to get a good look at Bucky’s face. 

The expression he reads there takes his heart and twists it, rips it right out of his chest and has it crumbling to dust in it’s fist. He nearly chokes on it, breath catching in his throat as he goes still. Bucky doesn’t bother to school his face, instead lets it turn a little sad. Steve shakes his head, frowning, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Bucky looks like he’s backed into a corner and is looking up a God and asking  _ why? Why now?  _

Steve shakes his head again, heartbeat picking up, and he takes a hand and cups Bucky’s cheek. “No,” he says. “No, don’t give me that look.” The words are shaky. He wants to swallow them back down, say them again but  _ stronger,  _ make Bucky  _ listen  _ to him. But Bucky looks away, eyes going distant, and Steve shakes him, just a little. “Bucky,  _ no,”  _ Steve repeats, growing a little frantic. 

Bucky’s eyes go impossibly sad, and for a moment he looks every bit his age. “Can I tell you something?” he asks, voice soft. 

Steve searches his eyes, now that they’re focused back on him, eyebrows drawn together and lips parted. He wants to pretend he doesn’t understand what Bucky’s doing, so he nods and lets his hand fall from Bucky’s cheek. But Bucky reaches down with a touch so gentle it wrenches a sob from Steve’s chest, but he lets Bucky cup his hand against his cheek. 

“The Garden of Eden,” Bucky murmurs, and the rest of Steve’s composure shatters. Bucky gives him a soft, sad smile, and continues while Steve quietly falls apart. “The Garden of Eden was created to be home to the first humans. A God created it, a God watched over it and it’s inhabitants, and a God, in the end, cast the humans out for betraying him. Now, I’ve never read the full story, I’ve only ever been told bits and pieces of it. But sometimes I wonder—what happened to the Garden, when the humans were gone?” 

Steve shakes his head, drops his forehead to Bucky’s shoulders again. 

“I make comparisons between this place and the Garden of Eden,” Bucky goes on, voice softer than before, a stark contrast to the ever-louder thunder creeping up over the horizon. “This place was created by a God. This place was left with a guardian, someone to watch over its inhabitants. Only, in this case, I am one of the inhabitants. And now, a God is coming to cast the inhabitants out.” 

He pauses, and Steve’s taking deep, heaving breaths, trying to keep himself together. Bucky’s hand comes up to smooth up and down Steve’s spine, an attempt to soothe that only has tears slipping from Steve’s eyes. 

“I wonder what will happen to this Garden,” Bucky murmurs, voice distant. 

And Steve—Steve wants to yell at him, wants to shout and shove and scream. Because that’s not  _ fair.  _ It’s not fair, and he can do nothing about it, because he has no idea what Bucky’s planning. All he can do is stand strong at his side and hope he knows when to step in to stop Bucky from doing whatever stupid thing he thinks is the only way. 

“I also sometimes compare myself to Adam,” Bucky whispers, like this is his darkest secret. “Only, I wasn’t created with someone. I was created alone, apart of the very seams of this world, and I was created to create, and to nurture, and to care.” He pauses to take a breath, and it sounds wet. Steve’s shoulders are shaking. “I have been alone for one hundred years. Before that, I have had people to care for, people who needed my help and have shared stories, art and love with me in return.” 

Steve shudders, wants to close his ears and pretend this conversation isn’t happening. He doesn’t want to hear it, doesn’t want there to be a  _ reason  _ he’s hearing it. Bucky’s hand is so warm, trailing shapes over his back, but he feels cold. 

“I have known thousands of people,” Bucky whispers, and the words are thick. “I have loved almost every single one of them. But I have only ever been  _ in  _ love with one. And I have never felt less alone than when I’m with you.”

Steve sucks in a breath and lets out an ugly sob. “Bucky—”

“Thank you, Steve,” Bucky chokes out. “Thank you.”

“Oh, God—” but he cuts himself off. He takes another deep breath and lets it out slow until he thinks he can talk without falling apart. “Bucky, why are you saying goodbye?” he whispers. 

Bucky’s silent, and Steve finally looks up. There are silent tears making their way down Bucky’s cheeks, and Steve wants to wipe them away but he leaves them, watches the last of the sun glint off the wet trails. Slowly, Bucky shakes his head, and the tears shine like stars for the briefest moment. 

He doesn’t answer Steve’s question. And Steve—Steve can do nothing but pull Bucky’s face down to his and press their lips together, pouring everything he has into the kiss. Fear, love, despair, gratefulness; it overflows from Steve into Bucky and comes rushing back like the tide, until Steve can’t tell what’s his emotion and what’s Bucky’s. Until he can’t tell where he ends and Bucky begins. 

He never wants it to end, never wants to pull away, and despite all waves of sorrow mixing with the joy, he has never felt anything so good. 

But it ends, as all things do. Bucky pulls away first, with a breath that sounds like he’s never breathed before. His eyes are wet, impossibly bright, and he stares down at Steve like he’s never seen anyone quite so amazing. It has Steve blushing from head to toe, but he’s sure he’s staring up at Bucky with the same reverence. 

They don’t say it. They don’t have to. 

And to encompass the magnitude of those unsaid words would be a battle lost; they simply don’t have the time, nor the language. Steve doesn’t want to think about it, not now, but he can’t help but wonder if he’ll remember this moment with the same clarity as he feels it now. 

And as he’s wondering— _ hoping _ —the sun blinks out. 


	21. Of Bravery, Of Honour, Of Sacrifice

She comes like a wave, crashing over the world and dragging everything on the shore back to the depths with her. They both feel the door shuddering under the effort to keep her out; she is not here for anything good, nor anything kind. The door will fight until it can’t, and when splinters lay over the grass of the glade, she will stand at the threshold with a smile on her face like she’s already won; like she’d cornered prey she’s waited so long to catch. 

Thor will meet her, axe for sword after sword after sword. He’s lost half his sight to her, he’s lost his family, his people, his hammer. He will fight with the ferocity of a man—a God—who has nothing more to lose but this fight. He will wear her down, he will snarl at the first flash of doubt in her eyes, but ultimately, he will be thrown to the ground and held there with a knife to his neck. 

Here, in this world, the only that controls the elements is Bucky. Others influence the weather, others influence the roiling of the sea, others influence the wind. But Bucky  _ controls  _ each of these things. The weather is his mood, the sea is his blood, the wind is his breath. He is the core of it all, and this is Thor’s downfall. 

Thor cannot call the lightning he needs to end his sister. He is thrown to the ground and he bares his teeth in defiance even as the blade draws that droplet of blood, but he can do no more than call a shattering of light carving through the air, singing treetops and lighting dry grass. Fire will lap at the edges of the glade, a tree will crackle and split, the fish will swim as far down as they can go to escape the flickering heat. 

And Hela will laugh. 

Just as the blade is about to carve right through Thor’s neck, just as the widening of eyes as realisation hits the God of Thunder, just as his life seems to come to an end, Hela is knocked aside. Standing with his arms at his sides, shoulders heaving, eyes wild, Bucky will curl a lip at her and she will recover from the shock to gather herself, laughing still.

And Steve will be at Bucky’s side, despite being asked to stay behind. 

“The only way we win this thing is  _ together,”  _ Steve will have hissed from the treeline. 

Bucky’s eyes will have been wild, desperate, pleading. He cannot imagine losing the one thing he has ever known to see him as wholly as Steve does. “And if we lose?” he croaks, cheeks still wet. 

“Then we do that together, too,” Steve says, determined as he steps out from the shadows and moves towards Hela like he has nothing,  _ nothing  _ to fear. 

And they do. They stand side by side, the air crackling around them like the world is confused as to who it’s connected to. Their forms, both once innocent, both once young, both once apart, seem to blur together for a moment. Maybe it’s a trick of the dim light, maybe it’s imagination, maybe it’s the tears, but for a second they seem to be as one. 

Steve will step forwards first, but Bucky is hardly a step behind. Hela won’t take long to rise to her feet again, half-crouched like she is predator and they are prey, swords in hand. Neither men are trained in battle, and only one of them has experienced it. But they stand strong, shoulders squared, and they don’t hesitate when Hela comes at them. 

This world is Bucky. Bucky is this world. In this moment, Steve is as much apart of the connection as he’ll ever be. He understands, in that moment, what Bucky’s plan is, and it hurts so much he thinks he might shatter apart. But he’s held together by the hope that it’s  _ not  _ the end it seems to be. 

Thor’s just getting to his feet when Hela reaches them. 

This world is Bucky. Bucky is this world. His flesh is held together by the fact that he is used to a human form. A physical form. His body is a body because that’s all he knows, except—it’s not. He knows the wind, he knows the dirt, he knows the feeling of a raindrop falling from the clouds only to become one with the ocean, leaving only the briefest moment of ripples to show that it ever existed. 

Steve’s heart is twisting in anguish as Bucky calls up this feeling neither of them know how to name and meets Hela with a grin. 

This world is Bucky. Bucky is this world. He was not always this form. He came from something, when he was created. Odin gathered soil, Odin gathered saltwater, Odin gathered his own blood and he mixed them together and wished Bucky to life. When he left, it was with no guidance. It was with no promise that this form would always hold. It was with no reason as to  _ why _ this form was the way it was. No promise that it would stay that way. 

Hela’s eyes widen in confusion as her swords go right through Bucky’s abdomen, coming out crimson on the other side. 

This world, this form, this feeling—it all mixes together and it all comes apart. 

Bucky’s last word is—  

“Steve—”

And the soil, the saltwater, the blood—it rises on the wind and seems to crawl over the swords that hover in the air, enveloping Hela like a cocoon. She screams, but how can she not? This is not what she expected. This is not the ending she has spent one hundred years imagining. This is not what she  _ wanted _ . 

Thor stumbles to Steve’s side as though to stop him when Steve reaches with one hand, gasping out—  

“Oh, oh  _ God—” _

And the soil, the saltwater, the blood—it seems to come together as dust and underneath the writhing particles Hela implodes. She goes from a solid, powerful, unbeatable form to nothing but dark dust. The place where she falls seems to breathe her in, until there is nothing but a black patch on the Earth, smouldering and smoking. Like a stain that you will never get out, but one that will never be what it once was. 

The soil, the saltwater, the blood. It almost seems to hover in the air even as the swords blink out of existence, and Steve’s outstretched hand is  _ begging,  _ he is  _ begging—   _

“Bucky, no, Bucky please come back— _ Bucky—” _

And a wind, gentle like summer rain, breathes through the glade. The dust that was once Bucky goes with it. 

The snow starts falling before Steve’s knees hit the ground, his head tilted back to gape up at the path the dust had taken as if in prayer. Snowflakes melt on his eyelashes, and the chill creeps in quick, gripping his bones as though it will freeze him in this position. He almost wishes it does, because he cannot imagine ever moving again. 

Then a hand, warm, at his shoulder. 

He jumps, startled by the contrast in temperature, and gazes with tear-blurred eyes up at Thor. Watches the God sink to his knees beside him, head hung, eyes unseeing. Steve stifles a sob, presses his lips together and returns to gazing at the sky. 

He doesn’t understand. The fight had lasted for an eternity, but it had been over in seconds. Bucky had known—he’d  _ known— _ or he’d at least guessed that Hela could be defeated this way. And he hadn’t told Steve, hadn’t warned him that his body would be reduced to dust and carried away on the last of the summer wind. He hadn’t said a damn thing and now Steve is kneeling here and he can’t  _ breathe,  _ he can’t even think, and there’s a patch of darkness that was once Hela but there is no remains of  _ Bucky.  _

But for all his confusion, his anger, his despair, he is numb. He cannot call any of the emotions to the surface; they simmer under the surface, roiling like a riptide. It’s somehow worse, because inside he is screaming and outside all he can do is stare as winter falls across Bucky’s world. 

There has never been a winter here, Bucky told him. Somehow, Steve knows that the possibility of there ever being a summer again is next to none. 

The tear that prickles at the corner of on eye feels like it might freeze as the air turns frigid. 

Maybe the glade will appear as this, to the next person who stumbles across the doorway; snow, thicker on the ground. Neverending. The skeletons of once fruit-laden trees creating an eerie frame. A pond, frozen over, fish frozen with it. A patch of darkness where the snow does not fall, but no living thing will ever grow. A man, knelt near it, skin blue, tears frozen, expression blank. 

Maybe the glade will never be stumbled upon again. Maybe the door, even now, is locked. Maybe the world itself will disintegrate, now that Bucky is...gone. 

And then from beside him, Thor stands. “Come on, Steve,” he says, and his voice is thick with the tears he has let fall. 

Steve barely registers it. 

“Steve, it’s cold. You need to get up,” Thor tries again, softer. 

Steve shakes his head, slow. “No,” he says, hollow, despite the  _ you always get up  _ ringing in the back of his head. Why should he? 

“Steve. He wouldn’t want you to do this,” Thor whispers, offering a hand. 

It feels like a knife in his chest, twisting. He can’t even begin to comprehend the past tense that Thor is using, doesn’t  _ want  _ to. But he’s right. Steve can’t stay here, not when it would for nothing but his own selfishness. He wants nothing more than to sink into the soil and become apart of it, because at least under the snow there is still the remains of Bucky. 

But he can’t. 

So he gets up. 

What happens next feels like it’s happening to someone else. Thor leads him around the darkness that was once Hela, and towards the door. It opens for them, shuts behind them like a life-changing book shuts when it’s over. The snow melts, out in the heat of Brooklyn. Evening traffic goes past, and Thor leads them through it. 

Steve’s apartment building seems like it’s from another world. Thor leads them past the black cat who stares at them with something like horror on its face. He takes them up the stairs, finds Steve’s key and unlocks the door to the apartment. Thor sits him down on the couch, finds a blanket and drapes it over him. There’s a brief acknowledgement of Nat’s absence. 

The kettle starts up from the kitchen and Steve stares at the coffee table. It still feels like it’s snowing.


	22. Is That All He Offers, A Safety In The End?

The feeling of a physical form being reduced to dust is almost the end. His conscious, unable to understand that it has to tie to a body anymore, threatens to shatter into nothing. It threatens to follow the particles of his flesh-and-blood on the wind, never to be seen again. It’s a battle to keep it together, to hold the threads with sheer force of will and beg himself to remain...real. 

He doesn’t know how long he fights. It could have been a moment, it could have been a day, it could have been  _ years. _ But he manages it, and when he feels stable enough to relax, he is more confused than before. He is nowhere, and yet...he is truly  _ everywhere.  _

Before, his world had been an extension of himself; he had been so connected to the earth, the wind, the sea, but he hadn’t  _ been _ the grass, he hadn’t been the sunflowers, he hadn’t been the clouds. Now? With his consciousness unanchored? He is all of those things. It’s like a dream; one moment he is a daisy and nothing more, wondering why the sun isn’t shining. Next, he’s a persimmon tree shivering under the snow fall, despairing as it’s leaves fall out of season. After, he’s a patch of seaweed, swaying with the tide and begging the water to warm again. 

It’s only until the last living thing goes into hibernation or dies is he cast back into what must be another layer of reality; he feels like he’s floating, adrift, unmoored. But he feels his world freezing over inch by inch. He’d thought his world had been  _ his  _ anchor, but he was wrong. He was his world’s anchor, and without him there? It is dying. 

And—and he remembers, then, after seconds, or an eternity of confusion and despair, that he had fought Hela. He’d won the battle but—what had he lost? What had happened to—oh, oh  _ Gods.  _ Steve would have seen—Steve  _ had  _ seen—and—

And in his panic, he very nearly loses his grip on himself. He has to force himself to calm down, to keep a hold of himself, and when he can relax again he tries to figure out what had happened after—after he’d—  

Steve must have been distraught. However Bucky wishes it weren’t so, wishes he hadn’t caused such pain, he knows he must have. Steve loved too deeply, too truly, to be anything but torn apart. Bucky can only hope Thor was in his right mind enough to help with the fall out. He can only help that someone was there to do what he couldn’t, was there to comfort Steve and make sure he wasn’t going to do something stupid. 

Had Steve even left? 

The thought stuns Bucky, has him spiraling again. He calms down before he panics, and tries to move wherever his drifting consciousness is to see the glade. It’s like the snap of his fingers; he wills it, and then he’s there. He doesn’t think he’s managed it, at first, thinks he’s gotten the wrong place and he goes to try again, goes to imagine himself standing by the pond staring at the door when he realises—  

The glade is unrecognisable. The hawthorn bush is bare bones, the door covered in ice and even that’s hard to see; it’s snowing so hard the air is thick with it. He can’t feel the cold, not like one would shiver and rub at their arms for friction and heat, but he knows it is. He knows it’s cold like he knows he no longer has a body, and if he’d had the ability, he would be crying. 

Winter reins over his world and he stares at that closed door and despair crawls all over him like unwanted hands and he forgets why he came here, forgets what he’s looking for because all he can feel is horror.  _ This  _ was never meant to happen.  _ This  _ was never meant to be the outcome. 

He was created as the protector of this world, the caretaker, and he’d done his  _ best  _ but in the face of a Goddess who planned to destroy world after world? To bring about Ragnarok and  _ finish  _ it? He’d had to sacrifice more than he’d ever been prepared to. 

And now he’s here, staring through the snow and feeling hollow. He is without purpose. He doesn’t know what to  _ do,  _ he is simply existing, and he doesn’t know if there is anything else for him. 

And—oh. What if this is all he has, now? Is he alone again, trapped? Only, this time, he doesn’t have anything to occupy himself with. He has no garden to care for, no trees to prune, no sun to bathe under. His world has been reduced to a frozen wasteland and he is still here, somehow. He is trapped, and he is alone, and he can’t go back and he can’t change a damn  _ thing  _ and—  

And he realises that he  _ is  _ alone. Steve’s not here. 

Steve made it out. 

So did Thor, which means—which means Steve’s  _ safe.  _ Maybe he even made it home and maybe he’ll heal from this, maybe he’ll move on. Whatever pain he’s feeling now, given time, will pass. It won’t disappear, pain never does, but it will become manageable. Steve will, eventually, be okay, and the memory of another world, a garden, and a not-man will be just that; a memory. 

And  _ fuck,  _ does that hurt. It chokes Bucky, the very thought of it, the  _ idea.  _ That’s selfish, he knows, but he doesn’t  _ want _ Steve to forget, doesn’t want him to. He wants Steve to never give up, wants him to come to the door like it’s a memorial, wants Steve to gasp and cry and curse Bucky out for uping and  _ dying  _ on him. 

Because that’s what Bucky is, right? He’s dead. 

But, the thing is, he doesn’t  _ feel _ dead. He feels wholly and painfully alive. He just doesn’t have a  _ body.  _ And that’s—almost worse than being dead, because how in the hell would he obtain another body? It’s not like he can just  _ grow  _ one. 

And despair wells back up and he loses a little time, just wallowing in it. 

He’s alone. 

He’s trapped. 

He has...he has his mind, and he has time, and he—he’s gotta think of  _ something.  _ He can’t give up. Not on—Gods, not on Steve.    

And purpose, glorious purpose, rears its weary head and glares at him through the snow like it’s begging him to give up. But he can’t. He  _ won’t.  _ So he turns his focus from the door and he gazes out at the skeleton of the glade he once knew and he—and he takes his purpose and he holds it tight. 

He will figure something out.

It manifests as a single, shivering leaf rearing it’s tired head from a snow bank and reaching towards the last glimmers of sunlight. Alive, so long as Bucky holds onto his hope. His purpose. The leaf is small, but it sings with the promise of being  _ more,  _ if someone just gives it the chance. 


	23. And If You Take My Hand, Please Pull Me From The Dark

The thing about Steve is that he doesn’t know how to give up. It’s not in his nature, it’s not in his blood, it’s not in his damn  _ nurture.  _ His Ma’s voice rings in his ears whenever he feels low— _ you always get up— _ and he  _ listens,  _ he gets up and he glares at whatever’s got him down and he meets it head-on. 

He doesn’t spend long on the couch. Sure, he takes an hour or two to stare into middle distance and replay everything over and over and over. Analysis’ it all, pours over what he could have done better. Chokes up when Thor says he’s staying the night and murmurs;

“You couldn’t have done anything, Steve. It wasn’t your fault. He had it planned.”

Steve hates him, a little bit, despite all Thor’s done. He weakened Hela, and then got her thinking the fight was already won. Let Bucky get the upper hand of surprise. He’d gotten Steve home when Steve really would have stayed in Bucky’s world until he froze over, and he’d made him hold a mug of tea until Steve could feel his fingers again. 

He’s grateful, he is. He’s just—he doesn’t give up, not ever, but in this case he almost wishes he had. 

And as he replays everything over in excruciating detail, he’s nearly drowning in the guilt. Because it was his fault; he could have done something, he could have fought harder, gotten in the way and saved Bucky, convinced him not to do it this way— _ anything.  _ He didn’t drive those swords through Bucky but he may as well have, for all the good he did helping Bucky win the fight. 

But the thing is, what’s done is done. Steve’s sat here on the couch listening to Thor’s breathing even out into sleep, and Steve is still alive. He can still do something about this. Because he’s been thinking; he and Bucky were connected. Bucky’s world accepted Steve, welcomed him,  _ spoke  _ to him. So shouldn’t Steve have felt something when Bucky died? 

Oh, he’d felt something for sure; he’d felt his own agony, his own shock, his own despair and disbelief and denial. But he hadn’t felt the little piece of Bucky he’s come to realise sits right up against his ribcage disappear. It’s still there, warm and comforting, and Steve—  

Steve  _ knows.  _ Somehow, somewhere, Bucky is still alive. 

He’s just gotta find him. 

So he gets up, as he always does, and he walks as silently as he can to the front door. He can only hope that the door to Bucky’s world is still there and that he can pass through it. If he can’t, well. He can’t think about that right now. So he pulls on a jacket, wincing at the rustling sound, and pauses when he’s zipped it up, looking over at Thor to see if he’s been woken. 

Thor stays sleeping, and Nat still hasn’t been home, and Steve closes his eyes briefly, steadying himself. He can do this. He needs to act now. So he twists the door handle and pads out into the hallway, closing the apartment behind him with a barely audible click. He walks down the stairs on numb legs, ignores the hollow ache in his stomach. 

It’s still raining outside; huge, heavy drops crashing down on the pavement. Cars with glimmering headlights send waves of water up from the road, a few brave people hurry by with collars turned up. Steve stares out at it all, frozen still, and realises he doesn’t even have a jacket. And it’s  _ snowing  _ in Bucky’s world. He’s—he has to be smart about this, doesn’t he? He doesn’t even know how long he’ll be in Bucky’s world, how long it will take to do whatever needs to be done. 

A dark thought sneaks up on him; what if the connection that remains is just the remains of Bucky’s world? 

But, no. Steve would know if it was that. This, what he feels, is Bucky. He just has to figure out how to get him back. Whatever it takes, whatever he has to do, he will get Bucky back. There is no other option. 

So he takes a deep breath, hunches his shoulders and heads out into the rain. The walk to Bucky’s door is one he could do with his eyes closed, and not just because he knows the way like the back of his hand. The door calls to him, tugs at his hands and leads him to where he needs to be. He can feel where the door is, feel where the world lays beyond. The connection feels a little like ice in his stomach, and it has his throat closing.

He presses his lips together and walks on, pushing away the tidal wave of sorrow that threatens to drown him. He can’t break down, not now, not when he has to stay strong to bring Bucky back. If he—Gods, if he  _ can’t, _ he doesn’t know what he’ll do. But he can’t think about that. He has to get him back. That is all he can think about. 

Through the beating rain, the door sits nestled between two buildings, as out of place as it looked the first time. Steve sucks in a steadying breath and raises a hand to grip the door handle. A shock of cold goes through him and he squeezes his eyes shut, hit with a bolt of fear that it won’t open. 

And he realises, then, that even if the door  _ does _ open, Bucky won’t be there to greet him. There will be no grinning, unruly, delightfully happy not-human bounding through the orchard to sweep him up in his arms and press kisses to his cheeks before capturing his lips. There will be no smouldering sun to shine down on Steve’s shoulders and warm him in places he never knew were cold. There will be no butterflies that capture Steve’s breath when he sees a place he’d come to think of more as home than Earth. 

So his hand lingers on the door handle as he tries to gather himself. It’s just—shit. Tears prick at the corners of his eyes as he realises that the lemon balm he’d picked leaves from not a day ago will probably be dead. He swallows past a lump in his throat and presses a hand to his stomach where it feels like he’s been kicked.  _ Fuck.  _

Fuck. 

It really hits him, then, what’s happened. For all his pushing it all away to deal with later, it comes  _ now _ and it comes like a storm greater than the one that stole Bucky from him. It shatters down upon him, sweeping him up and throwing him around, leaving him gasping for breath. 

The rain is too loud all of a sudden, and Steve drops his hand from the door handle to cradle his head in his hands, overwhelmed. The rain mingles with the tears suddenly streaming down his face and he sucks in a shaky breath, nearly choking on it as a sob rips its way from his chest. His hands come down from his head to wrap around his waist and he presses his forehead to the door, leaning against it and trying his best to hold it all in. 

It comes out anyway, grief and anger and despair pouring from him like a river overflowing its banks, taking everything with it until all there is are the raging blackwaters, dark and dangerous. He can’t choke it back, can’t possibly hope to pull himself out of it or swim to shore. He just has to ride it out and pray he does not drown. 

He sinks to the ground at some point, barely noticing the rain seeping through his clothes. He hunches over, gasps out ugly, heaving sobs. His hands are shaking. Bucky’s  _ gone.  _ Steve watched swords go  _ through  _ him. He watched Bucky turn to  _ dust.  _ He stood there and watched and he did absolutely  _ nothing.  _

And that’s just it; he did  _ nothing _ . And if all he can do in the face of that it fall apart in front of a door that once held more life than he’s ever known, well. What is he but someone who stands aside and does nothing? He’s never done that—never let himself stand by and let something so heart wrenchingly unfair just happen. He’s never been one to watch something good just slip through his fingers. He’s not about to start now. 

So he sucks in a rough breath and gathers the parts of himself he’s let fall apart and he shuts them away. He has something to do, and he’s going to do it. If he can’t get Bucky back he’ll figure out how to deal with it; but only  _ if.  _ Right now? He’s going to do everything and anything he can to make this right. 

And he stands up. He’s shaking still, but he blames that on the rain. He reaches for the handle and this time he opens the door after only a breath of hesitation. The cold hits him and settles deep into his bones and he has to take a moment to stare in horror at the winter that’s laid waste to Bucky’s world. 

But he steps over the threshold. 

He looks out into the glade, barely registers the door huffing shut behind him, and tries to comprehend what he’s seeing. 

Now, he’s seen winter before. As a kid, he’d nearly died come frost and snow. As he grew older, he’d been able to throw on layers and brave the cold. Nowadays his health is sturdy enough that he suffers the occasional bout of flu symptoms, careful as he is. He’s seen winter. He’s seen snow so thick it took hours in the morning sun to turn to brown slush. He’s felt wind so icy he’s had to call into work and take a sick day. He’s known winter days so dark he’s barely been able to get back home safe. 

But he’s never seen a winter like this. 

Snow seems to be coming in from all directions and it smothers everything in sight. He can barely make out the shape of the treeline, let alone where the pond might be. The jacket he’s wearing may as well be a singlet. And the  _ darkness, _ Gods. He has to squint just to make out individual flurries of snow. The white looks grey. 

But he can still see where Hela fell. It’s inky black, almost like it’s sucking in all and any light and  _ devouring  _ it. The sight has him shivering harder than the winter. He doesn’t want to go anywhere near it, but it’s where—it’s where Bucky...fell, too. Where he turned to dust. 

Biting at his lip, Steve casts his gaze upwards and focuses on taking slow, steady breaths. He will get Bucky back. He has to believe that, or he’s doomed to remember all of this as nothing but a terrible memory. And that’s just...not good enough. 

So he takes another step, deeper into the foreign landscape. 

And the door opens behind him. 

For a moment, he is as frozen as the winter he faces, hope making his heart skip right up into his throat. Then he’s sinking with fear, spinning on his heel and turning to meet whatever’s coming head on. What he sees standing in the doorway is what he least expected. 

“Nat,” he chokes out, voice rough from the tears. 

She looks uncomfortable, an arm around her waist and the other holding the door open. Her hair is bright, against the white. “Hey, Steve,” she says, just loud enough to be heard. 

Steve chews on his lip, shaky and unsure. “What, uh, what’re you doing here?” he croaks. 

“I heard what happened,” she not-answers, still lingering in the doorway. Every line of her body is held taut, and discomfort radiates out from her in waves. “I’m sorry,” she offers. 

He takes it because he knows she means it. “I’m gonna get him back,” he says, phrasing it like the challenge it is. 

She just nods, like she expected nothing less. “I know,” she tells him, and his heart skips in his chest. Nat wouldn’t just say that if she didn’t believe it. “Look,” she goes on, lips twisting into a frown. “I can’t offer much, but I think—Odin created him, didn’t he? From his own blood and the land?” 

Steve gives a tight nod, and watches as Nat closes her eyes for a moment, as though she’s gathering herself. Then she lets the door swing shut and she steps forwards. The snow immediately covers her coat but she doesn’t shiver. She opens her eyes and she’s looking at where Hela died. 

“I think I can help,” she whispers. 

And Steve feels hope, tentative but precious, claw at his throat. “How?” 

Nat’s wringing her hands; he’s never seen her wring her hands before. He gets it, then, what it took for her to come here. What she must have pushed past to open the door. “Can you feel him?” she whispers. 

He can hardly hear her, but he can read that look in her eyes. He  _ can  _ feel him, as keenly as he can feel his own body slowly freezing. Bucky’s  _ here,  _ somewhere, formless but oh so alive. And suddenly, he can’t focus on anything  _ but _ that. It’s like coming home, just feeling that spark of life, adrift somewhere barely tangible. And Steve can get him  _ back.  _

He’s starting to shiver, and he manages to give Nat a nod. Yes, yes he can feel him. She just nods back, casting her eyes to the sky like she’s praying to a God that stopped listening long ago. Like she’s given up hope on a reply but can’t help trying, again and again. 

“Is there anything growing?” she asks, just as quiet as before. 

Steve frowns, immediately confused, and casts a glance around. “I don’t—”

“No, not that you can see,” she interrupts. “What can you  _ feel?”  _

He hesitates; of course he does. He’s only ever talked with one plant, and he’s not exactly had time to exercise his newfound abilities.  A lump forms in his throat as he remembers how he’d left Bucky when he’d found out about the world accepting him. It seems silly, now, when that time could have been used to hold Bucky close and beg him not to do anything stupid.  

But there’s no use for what-ifs. He can only do what he can now to make things right again. 

So he takes a steadying breath and focuses. 

At first, he wants to back off, wants to rip his consciousness away from expanding, from sweeping over the land. Because it  _ hurts.  _ It’s a wasteland; barren, cold, unforgiving. Devoid of life. It has Steve’s throat closing up, bewildered and disbelieving tears pricking at his eyes. This place—this  _ home _ —this safe haven, this once beautiful and abundant place had been blown through by something evil. If Steve couldn’t feel Bucky’s lifeforce glimmering somewhere nearby, he would have stood up and walked out. 

As it is, it’s almost too much. The world feels  _ dead.  _ There is nothing. 

But then—hope. Just the faintest murmur of it, like a dandelion seed on the wind. 

Steve chases it like here is nothing else that matters; he could spend an eternity going after the trail it leaves and not look back once. He’s breathless with it, blood pumping, anxiety crawling up his throat at the very idea that he might  _ not  _ catch it. 

But, he realises, he is not chasing the trail. It’s leading him. And whatever it’s leading him to wants to be found. 

He finds himself moving through the snow. He can’t remember leaving the glade, can’t remember moving past the orchard and into the herb garden, but here he is. Nat’s behind him, something calm on her face, but she’s looking at Bucky’s hut. It’s almost startling to see it there, standing strong amongst the snow. 

Steve blinks, looking away from the hut, the lump in his throat only growing. He looks around, knowing there’s  _ something  _ here. Murky white covers the ground, grey clouds block out most of the sun. The light is dim, but Steve peers through it, seeking, searching,  _ praying.  _

And—there. In a snowdrift, beneath what was once a rosemary bush. A shivering green heart-shaped leaf, struggling to bloom. It’s the only thing left, the only plant that has managed to keep it’s head above the mounting snow. It doesn’t look healthy, but the fact that it’s  _ alive _ speaks volumes against all the darkness that surrounds it. It may as well be the light at the end of the tunnel, strong and unmovable. 

Steve makes for it like it will grant his every wish. And maybe—maybe it will. 

The ice seeps through the fabric of his pants the moment he comes to his knees before the last plant. He reaches out to it, brushes snowflakes from the leaves with a shaking hand. The cold feels like teeth digging into his skin, but he can barely feel it. All he knows is that this is his last chance to get Bucky back—and it hits him, then, what he needs to do. 

He’s connected to this world. He can feel its struggle pumping through his veins like his blood is its breath. It almost knocks him breathless, but just as he’s grimacing from the pain this world—Bucky’s world, his world,  _ their  _ world—is experiencing, he gets a whiff of sweet violet so strong he’s reeling from it. 

“Bucky?” he breathes, hand still outstretched, fingers still resting on the plants leaf. 

And this feeling that is not his own surges up in his chest, making him gasp out loud. It’s  _ strong,  _ it’s purpose and love and relief. Steve knows it’s Bucky like he knows, suddenly, that everything is going to be okay. 

“Bucky—Buck, I’m gonna get you back, I promise, what do I do, what can I—” he’s babbling, desperate, aching with the knowledge that this is  _ just  _ out of his reach. 

“Steve,” Nat murmurs, coming to kneel beside him. 

He flinches, turning to look at her, almost surprised that she’s still here. She’s shivering, but she’s holding out a small knife, something calm in her expression. Steve looks from her to the knife, the feeling of Bucky’s excitement welling up inside him. 

Nat watches him, steady in a way that has Steve taking a breath to calm down. “Living soil,” she murmurs. “Saltwater. Blood.” 

Steve swallows. “But  _ how?”  _ he whispers. 

She shakes her head, like she’s a little disappointed. But Steve’s always been one step behind her, hasn’t he? “You’ll know,” she says. “You’ll feel it.” 

And it’s not an explanation, it’s not instructions, but it’s a promise. Steve presses his lips together and takes the knife. He looks down at the tiny plant and nods once. He can do this. This will  _ work.  _ He’s not a God, he’s not anybody special, he’s just a guy from Brooklyn. But he’ll make this work, because it  _ has  _ to. 

“Thank you, Nat,” he says, and the words are quiet, but in the deathly stillness of what’s left of this world, it’s as if he’s yelling. 

Nat just nods at him and stands up. He doesn’t watch her go; he’s busy carefully digging around the base of the plant, taking a handful of the soil there. It’s strangely warm, even underneath the frozen ground, like the sunlight is focussing on keeping this sole plant alive. 

Once he’s got the soil, he stands on weak legs, stiff from the cold. He makes his way to the hut, and barely registers the ghostly feel it has. Everything’s still there, but he can’t bare to look at anything as he grabs a cup and leaves. The door shuts behind him, creaking on once well-oiled hinges, as though it’s already deteriorating. 

And he walks. 

There’s a sensation—a presence, almost draped over his shoulders like a warm arm. Something like breath tickles at his neck, and he shivers, but it’s from haunting relief. Bucky’s alive. He’s here. He knows, somehow, what Steve’s doing. He has faith that it will work. And that is more than enough for Steve to gather the courage to walk down to the beach and kneel by the shore. 

Even the waves are like ice lapping at his knees. He grits his teeth against the needle-like cold, and holds the handful of soil against his chest, safe from the water. He has no idea what he’s doing, but the feeling of Bucky’s hope drifting around him like mist has him dipping the bowl of water in the water. 

Once he’s got it, he stands and looks towards the hill, where Bucky used to watch the deer. Where Bucky said goodbye, where Steve tried to deny that Bucky was planning to make the sacrifice play. Where Bucky will be reborn. 

Steve can’t believe anything else will happen. This  _ will  _ work. 

Gathering himself, he walks along the beach, eyes on the hilltop. He almost expects footprints to be appearing in the sand beside him, but there’s just that feeling of Bucky being  _ here.  _

He’s breathing hard when he reaches the top of the hill, something building in his chest. It’s like there’s a vice around his heart, hands around his lungs. Everything’s  _ tight,  _ and he gets the feeling that it won’t loosen until he’s got Bucky in his arms. 

“Okay, Buck,” he whispers. A faintest hint of a warm breeze brushes his hair back from his forehead and he closes his eyes, jaw clenching even as his lip quivers. “I’m gonna get you back, okay? Promise. This will work.” He pauses, taking what he hopes is a steadying breath. “It has to.” 

And he sets the cup of seawater in front of him, nestled in the snow. The wind is fiercer up here, hurting his ears, but he barely acknowledges it. If anything, it’s as though the howling of the snow has silenced any distractions. 

Nat had said—living soil, saltwater, blood. Those were the things that Bucky was made up from, those were the things that Odin used to bring him to life. It had been Odin’s  _ intent _ that Bucky be tied to this world, that he  _ be  _ this world, protect it, nourish it. Steve has no intent. He just wants Bucky  _ back.  _

So he takes a shuddering breath, the cold stinging his throat, and lets the soil cupped in his hand scatter in a small pile, on top of the snow. He has no idea what he’s doing, not really, but he holds onto the  _ hope.  _ Somewhere in the back of his mind he acknowledges that the hope could very well just be delusional, but he can’t think about that. 

The wind’s picked up. The cold bites through Steve’s clothes. He can’t hear anything above it.

“Okay,” he whispers again, and takes the knife Nat had given to him. 

Staring down at the cup of saltwater and the scattered soil, Steve brushes his snow-damp hair back and takes a deep, slow, painful breath. Then he holds a hand over the soil and drags the blade over his palm. He lets out a hiss through his teeth at the sharp pain, but focuses on scattering the droplets of blood over the soil.

The wind nearly knocks him backwards, and Steve swallows a sob as he breath of warmth joins the ice. 

And—he hopes. He  _ wishes.  _ Bucky’s presence is as strong as ever.

When his hand grows numb and the wound begins clotting, he takes the cup of saltwater and pours that over the soil, too. The snow the three things are on had started melting away when the soil was placed there, and had retreated as Steve’s blood had joined it. Now, with the saltwater mixing the two things together, the snow seems to seep away, leaving frozen earth beneath.

The wind stills. 

And Steve breathes. It’s all he can do, even as his chest tightens that little bit more. 

“C’mon,” he rasps, bending over his knees and pressing his wounded hand to the soil, the blood, the saltwater. “Please.”

_ Please, Bucky. I need you. I wanna hold you and tell you how much I love you. I wanna see you every morning when I wake up, I wanna roll over and hold you in my arms as long as I can. I wanna make you tea, watch you drink it, I wanna brush your hair behind your ears and kiss you slow. I want you, Bucky, I want you back. I wanna make you smile, I wanna listen to your laugh, I wanna grow with you. Gods, I just want to look into your eyes and know everything is gonna be okay.  _

_ I want things to be okay. Please. _

A pause. “Please, Buck,” he croaks. 

And the soil, the blood, the saltwater, they all seep into the earth they lay upon. Bucky’s presence, warm and vibrating, disappears with them, sudden and frightening. Steve isn’t breathing; his chest is as tight as ever. There is no sign that the three things had ever been there, save for the patch of snow-free earth. Steve stares at it, a lump in his throat and tears prickling at his eyes. 

He can’t—nothing’s  _ happening.  _

But then the snow stops falling.

The patch of earth thaws, just enough for a few blades of grass to peek up towards the straining sun. Steve stares. He doesn’t dare move. But then— _ oh.  _ He feels it; his chest loosening as a breath of sweet violet brushes over him, similar to hands cupping one’s face, fingers trailing down arms and lips being pressed to lips. 

Hardly daring to move, Steve stares into the empty space before him. “Bucky?” he breathes. 

In response, the patch of unfrozen ground seems to...spread. The snow bleeds away, the grass stands up slowly, and the first flower buds unfurl among the blades. 

And then, like an exhale of relief, the thaw truly begins. 


	24. Epilogue

_Summer-warm fingertips glide down the length of his spine, following the curve of his back, a thumb pausing at each vertebrae like it’s checking he’s still healthy and whole. There is light dappling over their skin like rosy lips pressing love into each feather-light kiss. A being, created pure and kind, having suffered so much, rose up from the snow like a gasping violet given a second, third, forth chance. A second being, paint flecked over one cheek like a dance of freckles, lays with him and begs there to never be need of a fifth chance._

_Happiness—a constant fixture in their days. It sweeps over them like the tide, holds them together, holds them safe. Flowers bloom every time they laugh; and so flowers scatter every available hillside. Sunlight drips down the walls like honey, bathing everything in gold, and they awake every morning in each other’s arms, the soft ruffle of slow breath accompanying the whistle of the kettle._

_Satisfaction—despite everything, despite the chances, the odds, they won. They are here, they are alive, they are well. Food grows more than abundant; extra is sold at the Sunday market to pay for bags of flour and paints and trinkets. The world flourishes. Health is a given, but taken not for granted. They are alive. They are well._

_Peace—always within reach. They bask in it often. Sometimes it flutters away, but they always find their way back. Sunny days spent tending seedlings, watering abundant garden beds, kissing long and deep and slow, playing in the waves, painting scenes that they can barely believe are real, sometimes. It sits gentle in their hearts. They breathe it, exhale it._

_Sorrow—he’s been through a lot. He wakes sobbing, sometimes, reaching out desperately like if he doesn’t find Steve he’ll fall apart. They holds hands in the lavender darkness, press foreheads together and mourn what has been. What is. They came out on top, sure, but the battle remains like poison moving sluggish through their veins, rearing its ugly head when they’ve gotten too comfortable. They learn to breathe with it. This, too, shall pass. And it always does._

_Fear—that first morning, after. Rolling over to find him gone, sheets cold despite knowing, desperately believing that he had been there the night before. Heart in throat, the beginnings of storm clouds on the horizon, a sob squeezing his chest and skin chilling at the very inkling that he might be gone again, torn away, he’ll never get him back—but he was there. Sitting at the steps, staring up at clear, rosy pink morning skies. Smiling._

_Despair—a far off memory._

_They settle into this life they’ve built. The door stays open, but mostly hidden. There are visitors; Thor, mostly. Some strangers that stumble in with wide eyes. Nat, every now and then, usually accompanied by Clint. The black cat from the corner with its glimmering green eyes and ever sleek coat. The cat never seems to be around when Thor visits, though._

_Everything is peaceful, everything is calm. Steve and Bucky live like kings, caring for their world. They are woven together so intricately it would take an eternity to find where one ends and the other begins. Everything they feel, they feel together. Every sunrise is met with sleepy smiles, every sunset with content drooping eyelids. Summer reins._

_The shadows are nonexistent._

 

("Flower Bucky" by buckysnowangel)

 

("Flower Steve" by buckysnowangel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaand that's a wrap folks!
> 
> incredible epilogue art by [buckysnowangel!!!!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckysnowangel/pseuds/buckysnowangel) links to the full art posts found [here on tumblr!!](https://buckysnowangel.tumblr.com/post/183118777851/the-lost-garden-on-ao3-by-nightmaresinwintah-for) go and give 'em some love.

**Author's Note:**

> :D


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